


In the Raptor's Grasp

by paleogymnast



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the <i>Enterprise</i> is unexpectedly recalled to Earth apparently for a celebratory occasion, Kirk, Spock, and Uhura, didn't know what to expect. A line of super weapons designed by an alliance of the Romulans and the Orion Syndicate definitely wasn't on their list. Now the newly bonded trio must face their demons and find strength in each other as they tackle an impossible undercover assignment, devious intelligence agents, and a plot to bring the Federation to its knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Raptor's Grasp

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 [Trekreversebang](http://trekreversebang.livejournal.com). Many thanks to our wonderful mod ileliberte for running the comm and creating the art this fic accompanies. Her art is embedded in the fic. You can also view it [here](http://ileliberte.livejournal.com/162406.html). Many thanks also to my beta Engel82. I tinkered with this fic lots after she finished with it, so all remaining mistakes are mine.

**Chapter 1:**

Spock leaned back in his high-backed chair and savored the sight before him. It wasn't quite an emotional reaction, but his surroundings made him feel… content in a way little had since the destruction of Vulcan. The adjoining captain's and first officer's quarters that he shared with Nyota and Jim were a constant in his life now--as were Nyota and Jim, he was incredibly fortunate to have formed bonds with not one, but two highly compatible mates--but he did not get to spend nearly enough time in those quarters to reach the level of peacefulness he was experiencing here, at least not outside of meditation.

It was actually a bit perplexing--and fascinating--how a Starfleet Banquet could elicit such a response from him, and presently he was analyzing the logic in his reaction. He took another sip of plomeek soup--some of the best he'd had outside of Vulcan and the most satisfactory he had tasted since the destruction of his homeworld. Perhaps he had finally found a new home? Nothing could ever replace Vulcan or… Mother… but Starfleet was his family, the _Enterprise_ his home. In many ways he fit in better there than he ever had on Vulcan. Here, everyone was a little different. So many planets, species, histories, and cultures… They could all learn from each other, and all had to work together to bridge their differences and forge understanding. There was an incredibly simple logic to his life as a Starfleet Officer, even with all the unpredictability the job could bring.

Like now… The _Enterprise_ had been summoned to Earth unexpectedly, and for once it was for celebration, an opportunity to bring new crewmember aboard, and even a stint of shore leave… and Spock even had a place to go. Nyota’s extended family had invited them all for a visit, and Spock was… fascinated by the prospect of he, Nyota, and Jim all interacting with Nyota’s family.

Spock surveyed the room around him. The senior staff of the _Enterprise_ was present along with the officers and crew members from three newly commissioned starships—the Republic, Phoenix, and Cochrane. The ships had all been in the early stages of production during the _Narada_ incident and through the herculean efforts of Starfleet's Fleet Yards, construction crews, and engineers, and an unprecedented outpouring of support from every Federation world, they were completed a mere 18 months later!

Jim was seated across from him and down two chairs. He caught his bondmate’s eye, earning an impish smile in return before Jim went back to the animated conversation he was having with Commander Abrey, newly appointed First Officer of the _Cochrane_. They were conversing over a three-dimensional representation on one of the advanced prototype PADDs Starfleet Engineering had begun to use for some of their most complex projects. Jim’s hands were dancing through the air, painting pictures as they moved. _Ah,_ he recognized that pattern, Jim was telling the story of the time he drove his Father’s car into the quarry. Of course Spock knew the full story, the one Jim rarely told, the one filled with loneliness and pain and fear, the tale of desperate rebellion and suicidal tendencies. But he could see from Jim’s face those old memories were not haunting him. His face was filled with unadulterated glee.

Spock tilted his head and squinted. Judging by the representation of straps and Commander Abrey’s comment about tensile strength, he was willing to bet they were discussing some sort of restraint system. He nodded to himself. It was the logical conclusion. Abrey’s background was in engineering. She famously continued to work on research and design projects even after being promoted to command responsibilities. Jim liked things that went fast, flew, or exploded. It was a perfect match.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Nyota teased, sliding an arm around his neck and pulling him flush to her side.

“I am… quite at peace, thank you,” he replied, glancing down at her.

Her smile stirred his emotions, striking deep, just like Jim’s did. With them Spock could not deny his feelings, could not fully _control_ them. Rather than see it as a failing, he was beginning to accept is as a—gift of his human heritage. By respecting that side of himself, exploring his unique heritage, he could honor his Mother and her memory. It was something he wished he had realized while she still lived, but she had said she was always proud, and Spock had no reason to disbelieve that.

“Jim’s having fun, even if he is stuck way over there,” Nyota said. It almost sounded like a complaint. He felt her booted foot slip past his under the table and kick out, gently, before flopping down in frustration. “Can’t reach him, damn.”

“I do not believe Jim would appreciate you kicking him,” Spock observed.

“Well one of us needs to get his attention… there’s going to be dancing soon, and I don’t know about you, but I intend to take him for a spin,” Nyota purred leaning towards his ear. “Plus, I think Abrey’s got a crush. With Jim’s reputation…”

Spock looked closer, yes, he could see it there. The slight flush of Abrey’s cheeks, the dilation of her pupils, the speed of her breaths… she was definitely attracted to Jim—whether it was a “harmless crush” or something more serious Spock could not tell. “Jim does not realize her intent.”

“Does he ever?” Nyota sighed. “When he’s not doing the chasing it’s like he’s in his own little world.”

Spock nodded in agreement. It was… unfortunate Starfleet was not yet aware of their relationship. Jim was getting a lot of unwanted attention—it was partially the fault of Jim’s carefully crafted _persona_ of course, but that did not make it any more comfortable. They would tell the Admiralty eventually and soon—it was unsafe for Jim to be bonded to them with no record of it. Dr. McCoy knew, so that was a help, but Spock did not feel comfortable with the idea of leaving something so precious to chance. First they had to tell their families. Father knew as did the Ambassador… whose approval both pleased and unsettled Spock. The trip to see Nyota’s family would accomplish notifying them, and well… Jim had very little family and he was not in regular contact with any of his surviving relatives, so after that they could probably tell the Admiralty.

It would be _challenging_. They would face scrutiny. A triad relationship among three members of a ship’s command crew was unprecedented in Starfleet history, at least as far as Spock knew. But there was flexibility in the fraternization regulations for a reason. With the length of missions, the breadth and diversity of species and cultures and traditions and physiological needs, there had to be room to accommodate individuals’ needs. Vulcans needed to bond. Spock had bonded to two humans. There were those in Starfleet who still despised Jim, felt he received unfair favoritism, and who would oppose any “preferential” treatment they received. But no one would dare punish a Vulcan or sanction his family, not now. While Spock was uncomfortable using his people’s endangered status for advancement, it would be illogical not to use every tool at his disposal to protect his family.

Spock was about to comment when the doors at the end of the banquet hall and several officers in black Starfleet Intelligence uniforms entered.

“You don’t think they’re responsible for getting the dancing started, do you?” Nyota whispered, her tone wary.

“No,” Spock replied, although he could not fathom the purpose of the officers’ presence.

“Excuse me, Commander Spock, Lt. Uhura, if you could come with me please, the Admiralty requires your presence immediately.” The words came from an intelligence officer, a non-descript Andorian man of average height and build, who had appeared at their elbow.

Spock exchanged a glance with Nyota before they both glanced across the table at Jim. Jim had his own Intelligence interloper and was looking a bit _disturbed_ by the unexpected interruption. At least he was being called away too. Separation under unknown circumstances always made Spock… uneasy.

He and Nyota stood, pushing their seats back from the table and following the officer out the double doors at the end of the banquet hall. Quick recon of the room told him all members of the _Enterprise’s_ senior staff had been summoned. The Intelligence officer whisked them along at a breakneck pace, across the ballroom, down the hall, up a staircase, down another hall, and across until they reached a much more subdued conference room adorned with dark wood furniture that had one wall filled with antique paper books. Three Admirals and Ambassador Spock, his older counterpart from an alternate timeline, stood at the head of the table in front of a viewscreen.

The group drew to a halt inside the doors, almost causing a pile up as everyone snapped to attention and saluted.

“At ease,” Admiral Komak ordered. “Please take a seat and do so quickly. We do not have time to spare.” He glanced at the other two admirals—Barnett and Pike, looking serene and regal in his wheelchair, and gained their nod of approval.

Seven seats scraped across the floor as the command staff took their seats. The black-uniformed Intelligence officers had already vanished. The doors thudding shut behind them followed by the distinctive hiss of white-noise generators. The room was sealed, no sound coming in or out.

Spock stole another look at Nyota and Jim who had positioned themselves one and two to his left. Jim’s expression was overcome with dread. Knowing his bondmate, Spock deduced Jim had probably been… “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Nyota’s expression was quite similar. It had been _surprising_ to be called to Earth so soon with the prospect of a brief shore leave, but the reasons had sounded so legitimate, Spock had not questioned their orders. Perhaps he should have expected such deception. It was unlikely the Admiralty had not already planned this at the time they beckoned the _Enterprise_ back home.

He watched as Nyota squeezed Jim’s knee. His leg was shaking with tension. Her grip did not steady it, but Jim’s posture seemed to ease slightly.

Spock reached out through the bond and attempted to ground his bondmates.

“Was the Banquet a ruse? Or is the timing just convenient?” Jim demanded to no one in particular.

Komak bristled, but a cautioning glare from Pike seemed to steady him. “It is what it is. Perhaps a little of both. I would love to discuss the planning of Starfleet’s social calendar with you, Captain, but we are on a very tight schedule.” He glanced around the room. “Computer, lights five percent, begin presentation Raptor Hunt seven niner alpha.”

The lights dimmed and a series of satellite surveillance images accompanied by tables of sensor data appeared the viewscreen.

“What I am about to tell you is classified top secret and strictly need-to-know. Nothing I say in this room leaves. This conversation did not take place, and you are not to discuss the contents with anyone outside this room. Due to the extremely sensitive timing of the briefing I am about to give, I request that everyone hold their questions to such time as we have allotted. I cannot guarantee that we will answer any questions at this meeting. As soon as the presentation is complete, you will be escorted to your next briefings. Am I understood?”

A wave of “yes sirs” echoed across the room.

“Three weeks ago, that’s forty-eight hours before we sent our summons, the _USS Venture_ one of ships patrolling the border of the Romulan neutral zone, did a fly by of the Corbalis system,” Komak continued.

Statistics of the system displayed onscreen. G-class star, five planets, all in the habitable zone, if barely. Two M-class, three L-class. Three more Plutoids orbited farther out and a large and erratic Oort cloud full of icy chunks baby comets marked the outer bounds of the system. Uninhabited by sentient beings. It was completely boring, innocuous.

“They found this,” he gestured towards a series of images. It was the larger of the two M-class planets by the looks of it, the shoreline of a lush sub-tropical continent with sweeping black-sand beaches and weather-worn mountains probably originally volcanic in origin, lining the coast slightly inland. There was something wrong with the image though… no, not _wrong_ , just unexpected. A blocky, boxy shape, narrow and very long ringed in ominous red lights seemed to be rising from the water. The next image showed the shape higher up, then higher, then two more squares appeared beside it, breaking the waves in the same pattern. The images zoomed in, showing more detail. Strange appendages adorned either end, structures that stuck up and seemed to fold—they looked like a combination between a ramp to be lowered and a turbo lift. Perhaps they were both. More photos displayed onscreen, a series showed the first shape rising then hovering, then lifting into the atmosphere. The final image showed an eye-hurting lime-green pulse of light emanating from the base of the strange… ship?

“The _Venture_ found this. They were alarmed. There was nothing present or detectable on Corbalis Prime or anywhere in the system on the last flyby, and that was only a year ago. They alerted Intelligence and continued the investigation.”

More images. These displayed satellites—a large communications array, several smaller beacons. Those were followed by pictures. People perhaps, by the thousand, arranged in neat orderly lines, military style, training in the surf. Then an image everyone knew. A Romulan Bird of Prey, the Empire’s distinctive markings emblazoned on its side. Then he looked more closely at the pictures of what he now believed to be a ship. There was the seal of the Romulan Star Empire accompanied by an unfamiliar design similar, but not identical, to the seal—a large Raptor, its wings held high, was crushing a planet in one claw while reaching out with talons extended on the other side.

The images were followed by ground-based surveillance footage, snippets of middle-aged Romulan man wearing a Commander’s uniform shaking hands and bowing with a rotund Orion man and a sinister looking light-skinned human.

“I cannot share with you the details of how we gathered this intel as it would compromise the security of our agents. You are looking at pictures of the ship-building facility and military base we found on Corbalis. Yes, those are Romulans, and they’re shaking hands with tow top-officials in the Orion Syndicate,” Komak confirmed his voice pained.

Spock felt an irrational stab of anger, pain, _rage_ shoot through him. He knew these Romulans were not responsible for his mother’s death. He understood. He could not in good conscience or following the principles of Surak blame an entire race for the actions of one rogue man tortured by grief and stranded from a different timeline. But still… it was hard to push the unwanted emotion away.

“Meet Project Raptor. What you’re seeing are very specialized ships. They are launched from underground—actually under _water_ —and are capable of in-atmosphere flight courtesy of extendable wings, as well as sub-orbital, orbital, extra orbital and high-speed warp flight. They function as a combination weapons platform and troop transport. Each ship can transport five hundred heavily armed troops, land on a planet’s surface, and take off again. They also have extended range transporters, and we believe they may be trying to fit the ships with a cloaking device. There are nine ships of this type we have identified so far, but only one is complete or near completed,” Komak cleared his throat.

“What we’re really concerned about is the new weapons the Romulans have designed with help from the Orion Syndicate. They’re called Plasma Spectral Neutrino Cannons or PSN Cannons for short. They can fire on other ships, attack planets from orbit, or destroy targets on the ground while in atmosphere, and what you get is complete devastation. Raw plasma accompanied by a highly radioactive neutrino burst and a broad spectrum electromagnetic pulse dispense in each blast. One cannon has the power to cripple planetary shields, level a city or tear a starship in half. They could easily reduce any world to rubble… and the ship that’s ready to fly? It is outfitted with five of these.”

Komak stepped back and nodded at Ambassador Spock, who stepped up to the head of the table with a grave nod of his head.

“Greetings, friends, I am sorry that we meet again under such dire circumstances,” he began. The Ambassador proceeded to fill in the blanks in Komak’s account. The _Narada_ incident was well known, but the specifics—that it was an advanced renegade ship from the future in a different timeline that had destroyed Vulcan and the Klingon and Federation fleets—were not widely known. The Romulans, still insular, isolated, and distrustful, suddenly found themselves the pariahs of the galaxy. Klingons were breaking ranks and plotting revenge. The Cardassians were shoring up their fleet, spitting out warships and churning out listening arrays to protect their borders and spy on the Romulans at every turn. The Cardassians and Klingons had even begun talks at establishing an alliance—the Klingons had better technology but their fleet was depleted, the Cardassians had the manpower and resources, but weren’t as technologically advanced. The Romulans saw any potential alliance as a threat. They also viewed the Federation’s rush to complete new starships as a prelude to war. So the Romulans had turned to the only people who didn’t inherently hate or distrust them—the amoral Orion Syndicate—and forged their own alliance.

“They plan to hit Earth first followed by other Federation worlds. When they have wrought the destruction they seek, they will move on to Cardassia and the Klingon Empire. It is your task, my friends, to foil this plan. Stop the attacks. Destroy the weapons, and provide the Federation with an entre into diplomatic negotiations, a peace process,” the Ambassador concluded. His eyes rested on Spock for a moment before he returned to his seat.

Spock thought his counterpart looked… sad, _concerned_ like he knew some grave secret. It was unsettling, and Spock reached out himself, tangling his fingers with Jim’s under the table, tension easing from them both as the touch reinforced their bond.

As the Ambassador sat, Spock watched Barnett and Pike exchange a look. Barnett’s expression was annoyed, but Pike was shaking his head.

“Let me handle this,” Pike snapped, rolling forward a about a meter and stopping facing his former crew. “Look. I know you haven’t had time to absorb this, and most of it probably doesn’t make sense, and I am sorry, because we should not have to ask this of you. We should have known sooner, but if the intel is correct, the first wave attack will launch within two months. We do not have the defenses to fend off an attack from these ships. If we’re going to survive to fight another day, we’ve got to disable them and destroy the weapons while they’re still on the ground. Even _one_ of these ships partially armed would be a menace to the Federation and every other government in the Alpha and Beta quadrants,” he sighed, his eyes crinkling his expression _tired_. “Nero shouldn’t get to take any more victims, but any conflict that arises from Project Raptor—those lives lost will be his doing. We need to change our strategy, reach out to the Romulans, let them know we realize they didn’t attack us. Set the record straight. But that can’t happen as long as this threat exists.”

“The ships are being constructed and fitted with weapons underwater and underground. The base is shielded and we know one ship is armed. This means we cannot attack from orbit.” He turned, swiveling his chair, and looked straight at Spock, Jim, and Nyota his gaze piercing, and somehow apologetic. “Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, and Lieutenant Uhura, you’re our point people, our command team for this op. You will work directly with Starfleet Intelligence and it’s your skills that will make or break us. We’re sending someone in undercover. It will either be Captain Kirk or Commander Spock,” he paused almost imperceptibly before continuing, “exactly who’s going in will be determined at a special session following this one. Which ever one of you we don’t send in will remain in command of the _Enterprise_ and will be in charge of coordinating and planning the support effort. Lt. Uhura, your linguistic skills and knowledge of the Romulan language and dialects are unparalleled. You’ve also shown yourself to be a talented code breaker and hacker. That’s what we need you to do. The rest of you are needed for your engineering, navigation, tactical, and medical skills. All will be needed. We’ve got messages to intercept, decode, and translate. We’ve to keep the _Enterprise_ hidden but in range for emergency extraction, we’ve got to figure out how to let our undercover operative communicate with the ship, and we do not have much time to do it. Five days, people. We need you in system within five days plan ready to deploy. You’re the best and brightest, and the Federation needs you to pull off a miracle.”

Spock was pretty sure Barnett dismissed the meeting, while Komak started barking orders about who was going where and when, but Spock’s world had narrowed the moment Pike had said it would be him or Jim. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, the world narrowed down to Jim and Nyota beside him, the thrum of the bond, the brush of their conflicted emotions over his psyche. His bondmates would be separated and the Admiralty didn’t know. Could he do it? Could he go undercover on a Romulan base? Or had the experience of losing his Mother, his Planet, corrupted his control on his emotions to the point of bigotry?

The room was empty save for the three Admirals, the Ambassador, he, Jim, and Nyota. They were alone and exposed.

“Lt. Uhura, you’re welcome to wait here or take a breather—we won’t talk comm strategy until we’ve got the undercover assignment sorted out,” Barnett said.

Spock emerged from his introspection and he locked eyes with his partners.

“Go,” Jim murmured, turning towards Nyota. “It’s okay… go.”

Spock was grateful Jim had the strength, because he wanted nothing more than to clutch them both to him and never let go.

 

 **Chapter 2:**

“Stupid petaQ negotiations,” Nyota muttered as she stepped out onto the balcony, thankful for the long sleeves of her ridiculously uncomfortable dress uniform and the insulation they provided against the foggy chill of the San Francisco evening.

“I am sure the Admiralty would not agree with your assessment of the mission planning.”

Nyota startled, her long, high ponytail slapping against her back as she whirled around to face the arched doorways that led out onto the balcony. “Ambassador,” she said in surprise, acknowledging her partner’s counterpart with a tip of her head. “I figured I was safe expressing my displeasure in Klingon.”

“Ah yes, it is not a commonly understood language in the Federation in this day and age,” Spock said sagely as he stepped out onto the balcony, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin pressed to his chest as he walked.

“It’s not the same in your time?” she asked, turning back to the balcony railing, looking out over the San Francisco bay as it spread before them, lights twinkling and glowing in the fog.

“In my time and my reality, the Federation and the Klingon Empire are friends, allies.” He glanced over at her, his eyebrow quirking up and his expression falling into what she thought of as the Vulcan version of a conspiratorial smile. “Although, our governments still have the occasional squabble and misunderstanding.”

Nyota smiled, “I can imagine.” The idea of your average Klingon warrior actually getting along with humans or Vulcans seemed pretty far fetched to her.

“There are actually several Klingons in Starfleet, and they are among our most decorated and respected officers,” Ambassador Spock said. “I hope to see events unfold similarly in this reality, preferably avoiding some of the more notable missteps along the way.”

Nyota didn’t know how to respond to that so she remained silent, following the Ambassador’s glance across the foggy night to the twinkling lights of the Transamerica building. It was almost as iconic a symbol of San Francisco as the Golden Gate Bridge and nearly as old. A testament to human vanity or perseverance, she was never really sure. It had been maintained, repaired, and even partially rebuilt in the face of time, natural disasters, and war. Whatever the original motivations of the landmark’s builders and architects, it now served as a reference point, a symbol of humanity’s stubbornness, a touchstone that many identified with the heart of the Federation.

She let the silence fill the space between them, waiting to see if the Ambassador was going to say anything. But it was pretty clear he was waiting for her to speak, so at last, she gave in and voiced the words she’d been itching to say since Admiral Komak first revealed the details of their top-secret mission. “It should be me who’s going.”

Ambassador Spock didn’t say anything. His closest eyebrow did twitch a little, but she wasn’t sure what that meant. When she’d first learned of the time-traveling, trans-reality interloper, she thought she’d be more disturbed. No, she _had been_ disturbed. The idea of an old man from a different time who shared her lover’s face and voice, or rather what his face and voice would become over the course of time, knowing that there was every chance the Spock she knew would be around in 135 years, but perhaps she would not. She’d felt threatened when she first learned of this Spock’s relationship with the Jim Kirk of his reality, worried perhaps events were destined to turn out the same way here, perhaps she didn’t have a place… But then she’d reminded herself she didn’t believe in fate, and she was perfectly happy to make her own destiny, and then things with Jim had well…

Now she found Ambassador Spock intriguing more than threatening. She wondered how much of his unique personality was a product of his own timeline and how much was present in this universe’s Spock. Still, it meant she couldn’t read Ambassador Spock’s reactions as easily as she would like (or at all). So, when another minute had passed and he still hadn’t responded, she spoke. “They’re not considering me. They’re in there debating whether it should be Jim or … Spock that goes undercover.” She huffed. “They think they’re making a logical decision.” Nyota kicked one booted foot against the reinforced base of the railing.

The Ambassador made a funny noise—faint, so quiet without her exceptional aural sensitivity she likely wouldn’t have heard it—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “But they do not know all the parameters, and they have misidentified several of the variables,” Ambassador Spock added sagely.

“Yes,” Nyota half-coughed. She glanced sideways at the Ambassador, unable to conceal her surprise. “Pardon me, sir, but I am surprised… I mean I expected—”

“You anticipated I would agree with the Admiralty,” he supplied, meeting her startled gaze.

She blushed feeling inexplicably guilty. “It appears I assumed you were similarly misinformed.”

“Lieutenant, you have not disappointed me. Nor have you provoked an unemotional equivalent—I do not think any less of your intellectual abilities nor you as a person. And you did not believe I was misinformed. You doubted I realized the full extent of the differences between myself in my youth and the James Tiberius Kirk of my own reality and the young Commander Spock and Captain Kirk who are in that briefing room.” Spock’s voice was even, almost light as he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Nyota apologized, running her fingers along the strands of her ponytail that were draped over her left shoulder. It was a nervous habit, but comforting nonetheless.

“Don’t be,” the Ambassador said, sounding so casual and—human—she was taken aback. “It is I who owes an apology to you. When I first spoke to young Jim and Spock, I believe I made them both uncomfortable and by extension slighted you.”

“Pardon?” Nyota asked, not following.

“I did not realize that you and Spock were together when I first spoke to him. And Jim—” his eyes became clouded, dark, haunted by something far away. “I mind melded with him out of necessity at a time when I was exceedingly emotionally compromised. You see, I lost my Jim many years ago, and the relief and joy at seeing him at such a time… The emotional transference was regrettable and uncensored. If my actions led you to believe you did not belong with either of them, or pressured Jim into a relationship he did not want, I am sincerely sorry.”

“Oh.” Although she had experienced Ambassador Spock’s relative comfort with both discussing and admitting to his emotions on numerous occasions since the _Narada_ incident, she still didn’t expect it. It felt jarring and a little off-putting—one more reminder that this Spock and her Spock were two distinct and dissimilar beings for all their shared genetics. “I—” She crossed her arms across her chest, rubbing her arms to ward off the settling chill. She was tempted to brush off the topic with a white lie, but went for honesty instead. “I was worried at first, especially when Spock and Jim became friends. But then…” She shuddered as the familiar flip of want stirred low in her belly accompanied by the fierce protective streak they had toward one another and the slow burn of love that signified the growing bond the three of them shared. “Jim fit with us.” She looked up at Ambassador Spock. “I don’t doubt _us_ anymore, at least not more than anyone has doubts about their relationships.”

The Ambassador nodded. His features twitched again approaching something that was almost a smile, but still appropriately Vulcanly stoic. “I am glad they have you and you them.”

Nyota had the good grace to smile. “Thank you, sir,” he blushed looking down at her boots. Her smile grew, as a woefully inappropriate question pushed its way to the front of her mind. _Oh what the hell_ , she decided. The conversation was already firmly entrenched in “strange and inappropriate” territory; one more honest question couldn’t make things worse. “In your time—did we,” she pointed back and forth between them, “or Jim and I?”

Breath left Ambassador Spock’s mouth in a definite snort. “No, the Nyota Uhura of my reality never had a relationship with me.” He paused while one eyebrow shot towards his hairline and he leaned closer to Nyota. “Although she did once—tease me—about my Vulcan heritage and how my logic was blinding me to the allure of young women.”

“Hah!” Nyota exclaimed, “You’re kidding me.”

“Vulcans generally do not _kid_ ,” Ambassador Spock replied. “But in this case, I believe she meant it in jest. She was trying to get me to relax and be more sociable.” He bowed his head. “You have to understand, I did not have the benefit of meeting Nyota Uhura at Starfleet Academy. Although I was an instructor there, it was not until much later in my career.” His eyes grew distant again. “We were good friends as our musical interests overlapped.”

Nyota nodded, she could imagine how she and Spock might have become friends, the different path their relationship might have taken if they hadn’t had the relatively casual atmosphere of the Academy to ease the way.

“Nyota and Jim did kiss once,” the Ambassador interjected.

Uhura’s eyes snapped up.

“There were mind-altering substances involved, of course. Your counterpart and my Jim were good friends, and I am happy to say the incident did not disrupt your friendship.”

“Sounds like you had a good crew,” Nyota commented, but her words felt empty. Even for a Vulcan with the most disciplined emotional control the sudden loss of everything he had known followed by the devastation Nero had wreaked on this reality, this timeline... “Their absence must be cognitively discordant for you—it must feel illogical—”

“I miss my friends and my reality. But I am here now and can share my wisdom with _this_ timeline. I have the opportunity to see a version of friends I lost long ago. And I have the comfort of knowing Vulcan still stands in infinite realities and infinite timelines alongside this one.” There was pain in his voice, but no hint of deceit or self-deception. The Ambassador was being completely honest.

Nyota nodded and silence fell between them again, but this time it was a little more comfortable. They stood side by side, facing the balcony railing watching the fog roll in, growing thicker as the last lights of evening darkened into night.

“The Orion Syndicate engages in the trafficking of sentient beings with a focus on the trade of humanoid slaves for sexual servitude. Humanoid females are trafficked at a higher rate than any other gender. They compose a full 68 percent of the Syndicate’s _inventory_ ,” Ambassador Spock said mater-of-factly.

It felt like a non-sequitur at first until Nyota caught the thread of their earlier conversation. _Variables and parameters._ Spock was running through the facts and statistics the Admiralty was using to reach their conclusion. “True, however, there are an increasing number of female-identified humanoids holding positions of power within the Syndicate.”

“Ah, but the Admiralty sees only the possibility that you could be caught and held as a slave, thus attaching a higher cost to the mission,” Ambassador Spock replied seamlessly. “Of course, for you that perceived weakness could also be a strength. You could easily gain access by posing as a slave.”

Nyota’s eyes widened and she nodded in respect. The Ambassador really had thought this through. “But Starfleet will not order an officer into such a position, and they won’t even ask unless it’s the only way. And it’s clearly not the only way.” She took a step closer to the railing and let her hands rest against the cool, rounded top—marble dampened by fog. “And if I went undercover as a slave I wouldn’t have access to the same places. My movements could be restricted. It might be impossible to gain access to the necessary facilities, especially since the Romulans’ interaction with the Syndicate seems to be focused on the arms dealing side of their business. It is possible I could be traded to a Romulan officer of significance to the project, but there would be no guarantees I would get into the weapons platforms or troop transports themselves, which could prove fatal to the mission.”

“There would be too many unknowable variables,” the Ambassador agreed. “There is also the matter of you linguistic skills and knowledge.”

“I was proficient in 83% of languages spoken in the Federation as well as all three major dialects of Romulan, four dialects of Klingon, formal Cardassian, and a handful of other languages when I was assigned to the _Enterprise_. My skills have only improved since then.” She glanced over, “Living with Spock and Jim has helped.” Nyota rubbed her fingers over the railing. “If I went undercover, I wouldn’t be on hand to translate or decode any communiqués the Enterprise intercepts.”

“But we would not have to risk encoded transmissions to and from the Romulan base to assist with translation and the possibility of the undercover operative blowing cover due to a language barrier would be exceedingly unlikely if the operative was you.” He answered, falling into a rhythm. “Although, I surmise neither Captain Kirk nor Commander Spock will be at great risk of a linguistic barrier.”

His words brought a small smile to her lips. “Jim has been obsessed with learning Romulan—written and spoken,” she confirmed. “But the Admiralty will weigh the cost of not having me here for translation work as too great.” She let out a long sigh and focused again on her hands. “I almost agree with them on that. It would not be an ideal situation. But it would still be better…”

“The Admirals also seem to be operating under the misapprehension that your linguistic prowess is too formal, so you might stand out among… less savory individuals.”

Nyota’s head whipped around, and sure enough, the Ambassador was not exaggerating.

“I believe both Admirals Archer and Pike are aware of their colleagues’ error, but they did not appear inclined to press the point,” Ambassador Spock confided.

“Wow, well maybe you should remind me to swear at Admiral Lui in the southern dialect of Low Klingon with a working class accent the next time I see her,” Nyota quipped, but she couldn’t quite laugh at her own joke. Instead the icy knot of fear and apprehension that had been sitting in her gut since Admiral Barnett had called the senior staff into a closed-door meeting following dinner. “They’re not going to pick Spock either.”

“No, they will not.” The Ambassador’s voice was soft. “In many ways it would be easier to infiltrate the base through the Romulan side of the equation.”

“They’re a lot less likely to sell us into slavery, at least, I think,” Nyota agreed.

“And therein lies one of the problems. The Romulans are too secretive and insular a people at this point in history, especially after Nero’s actions. No amount of intelligence gathering could adequately prepare Commander Spock to blend flawlessly as an officer. The Tal Shiar—” Ambassador Spock cocked his head to the side in response to Nyota’s blank expression. “That is the name of the Romulan intelligence organization. They are an autonomous group with their own fleet of ships who act with near impunity. They would undoubtedly pick up on Spock’s presence. We simply do not have the time to set up an identity that would stand up to scrutiny by the Tal Shiar. My knowledge helps, but there is no telling precisely how the events of the last twenty-six-point-five standard years have affected their protocols.”

“And we didn’t even know what they—the Tal Shiar—were called,” Nyota admitted. She shuddered as she realized the name was almost phonetically identical to the term for a type of execution common on pre-Reformation Vulcan. “And like you said, it’s only one of the problems. Spock is a good actor when he needs to be, but he could be detected in an emotionally charged setting. There’s also—” She glanced up at Ambassador Spock. “They would use your mother against you, against him. Her or the destruction of Vulcan itself. It will come up in casual conversation and—”

“He would quickly become emotionally compromised.”

“Yes, and while Romulans like a strong show of emotions, his reaction would be all wrong. Besides, the Admiralty wouldn’t risk putting a Vulcan in such a volatile position, not with so much at stake, and not when their capture could be used against all Vulcans,” She admitted. “It would be disrespectful to the Vulcan people to put one of their own at such great risk, even voluntarily.”

“They also believe Spock would become emotionally compromised if you went undercover,” the Ambassador observed.

Nyota nodded in agreement. “Yes, because they know we are together. They don’t know about Jim—they don’t realize what it will do to Spock.” The statement sent the memory of Spock after the destruction of Vulcan streaking through her mind like a flash. She flinched, pulling her hands away from the railing and tugging at the embroidered cuffs of her dress uniform sleeves. “We were planning to transport to Nairobi to visit my family after the banquet here. They’ve met Spock and Jim, and they know Spock is my partner, but we were going to introduce Jim as ours, too. There won’t be time, now.” Hope seemed to drain from her voice as she spoke. The _or maybe ever_ remained unspoken. There were no guarantees in Starfleet. Their jobs were dangerous, and they all accepted it. After all, most of Jim and Nyota’s graduating class had perished during Nero’s assault. With the destruction of Vulcan—no one in the Federation took long life or safety for granted, not any more. But to be _so close_ to home, family, and not get to say hello—it was akin to slow torture. Nyota felt like there was a clock ticking down the time until their departure, ominous and threatening, once that time clock hit zero that was it. There was no guarantee any of them—and it was looking like Jim was especially in danger—would make it back to have another chance.

“I am confident you will have the opportunity in the future,” Ambassador Spock said, but the confidence was lacking from his voice. “You are right, however, that they will send Jim.”

“They don’t realize…” Nyota started. “Don’t misunderstand,” she clarified hastily, “it’s not a lack of trust or faith or confidence in his abilities. It’s not some—petty hate left over from our academy days.”

The Ambassador nodded, but didn’t interrupt her, so she continued.

“It’s just,” she lowered her voice and turned toward him, “I know that they’re seeing the surface, the façade. They’re seeing Captain James Tiberius Kirk of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_ , poster boy, tactical genius, good luck charm, and savior of Earth. They’re just seeing what he wants them to see. Same as happened with me. Of course, they’re seeing a different Jim than the one I saw, but just the same, it’s still fake. Well not _fake_ , but—”

“Only one aspect of Jim’s character, a shallow, one-dimensional representation,” Ambassador Spock provided.

“Exactly,” she agreed. “Jim will fit right in. They think his history of delinquency and petty crime will make him blend easily with the Syndicate. They know he’s good with languages—although most of them don’t have a clue _how_ good—and they assume his rough and tumble past means he speaks these languages with the appropriately _colorful_ accent. They’ve forgiven him for reprogramming the Kobayashi Maru, but the incident has highlighted in their minds Jim’s ability to charm and persuade and his hacking and computer skills. Those skills will give him a solid cover and will enable easy data retrieval and intelligence gathering once he’s in place. They know he has personal connections to Nero’s crimes, but the _Kelvin_ and his father’s death has faded to the background in the past 18 months.”

“They assume Jim worked out any desire for revenge when Nero died, and will not harbor any additional prejudices or passions that would be easily enflamed by his cover,” the Ambassador added.

“And they’d be right if they were only talking about the Romulans.” Nyota turned her body so she was facing Ambassador Spock’s side and rested her elbow against the railing for support. She ignored the way the cool damp seeped through her sleeve and squeezed her fingers around the rounded edge as she gritted out her next words. “If it was just the Romulans, Jim would be the perfect fit for the job. But it’s not. They have him infiltrating the base through the Orion Syndicate. They don’t even realize—they don’t know what they’re doing.” Her tone was almost pleading. “If I went undercover, they would see an attractive, young human female. Some would underestimate my strength. Some might try to sell me to the highest bidder. But I don’t stand out. I’m just one among millions, but Jim?”

“Twenty-nine point two percent of slaves traded by the Orion Syndicate are male. Of those eighty-nine percent are young, attractive, and physically fit, but small framed,” he said.

“Jim is a dead ringer for twenty-six percent of the Syndicate’s slaves,” Nyota translated.

“The Admirals may believe Jim’s facial scarring would make him less desirable to prospective buyers or traders,” Ambassador Spock suggested.

“If they’re even thinking things through that far. The Admirals don’t see Jim as vulnerable. If the Syndicate looks closely—if Jim’s identity is compromised, if he slips up, if they pay attention, they’ll see. Any of them will look beyond the mask and they’re going to know he’s a survivor who _escaped_ , and they’ll do everything they can to put him in his place. They’ll _enjoy_ breaking him. They won’t think twice—” Nyota cut herself off when she realized she’d revealed more than she meant to tell.

“You have not betrayed Jim’s confidence. It would not take a mind meld to understand what he lived through before coming joining Starfleet if one was paying attention. It is, as you implied, written on his face.” The Ambassador frowned, a surprisingly un-Vulcan move, and spoke in a low voice. “In my reality although much of Jim’s childhood and adolescence was more pleasant, even he did not escape the horrors of Tarsus IV.”

“I—I’m sorry to hear that,” Nyota admitted, refusing to let herself wonder how similar the other Jim Kirk’s experience on Tarsus might have been. “The Admirals don’t realize what they are risking if Jim gets caught. Well, Pike does, and Pike _knows_ , but he’s not going to say anything because it would lead to Jim being coddled and it would ruin his career and quite possibly doom the Federation if Pike’s opinion of him is anything to go by.”

“And you will not say anything.”

“No, for the same reason Pike won’t and you won’t. Jim would never forgive me, and it just might make the situation worse. And Spock won’t. Because he’s reached the same conclusions as you and me,” she added with a sigh. “All it will take is the wrong person getting a good look at him, someone trained to see behind that kind of mask.”

“Maybe he won’t encounter anyone like that. Like you said, this is the weapons side of their business,” Spock suggested.

Nyota glanced over at him, but saw the disbelief plastered across his face. “In what universe does Jim Kirk have that kind of luck.”

The Ambassador’s face twitched again, and his voice, when he spoke, was higher, lighter, “Not any universe of which I am aware.” There was a fond amusement present that melted Nyota’s heart a little.

“Yeah, so the question is what the hell do we do when this blows up in Jim’s face? What if it’s too early? What if he doesn’t have the intel we need? What if they take him somewhere else?” Nyota voiced the fears that were tumbling around in her mind.

“What if they enslave him?” the Ambassador finished.

Nyota blushed with shame or guilt or something conflicted she couldn’t quite define. “Yes, what happens if they figure him out and we don’t get there in time?” She cringed, “I—it’s not that I don’t care about the Federation. I understand this is larger than me, larger than Jim and Spock, that’s why I would go, in a heartbeat, if the Admiralty had considered it. And I know Jim will do everything he can to make this work, but I right now I just wish it could be someone else.”

The Ambassador inclined his head towards her, giving a slight nod, and they stared off into the fog together.

 

 **Chapter 3:**

 _I'm supposed to be on shore leave_ , Jim thought for what had to be the dozenth time today. It had seemed too good to be true; deep down he'd known it. Even though the Enterprise had required a resupply, had agreed to take on a dozen cadets who'd fulfilled their graduation requirements early, and had been requested to attend a legitimate diplomatic reception, he'd known the promise of 7 days shore leave on Earth seemed too... lucky. Had it not been a ruse to cover the top-secret mission planning in which they were now engaged, he was confident an emergency would have come up that would have cut their vacation short.

Even so, he was realizing he had honestly believed they'd get a few days. They were supposed to be on a shuttle or transport pad by now, well on their way to Uhura's--Nyota's--family's residence. All those years trying to find out her first name and now, after a little over a year together, he still caught himself thinking of her by her last name. That might change when he met more members of the very large, supportive, over-achieving Uhura clan. But that wasn't going to happen today. Instead he was half-jogging down a narrow white hall that was one in a very long line of narrow white halls that made up the lower levels of the rabbit warren known as the Federation council complex, rushing from a top secret briefing to a top secret strategy session.

Somewhere a chronometer chimed announcing the time and stardate in Federation Standard followed by a long series of other languages commonly spoken in the Federation capitol.

 _Fourteen hours._ They'd dragged the _Enterprise_ senior staff away from the banquet at 2100 local time the night before and it was now 1900 in the capital, accounting for the nine-hour difference between San Francisco and Paris, they'd been in meetings, briefings, or strategy sessions for 14 hours without breaks (other than the time it took to rush from meeting to meeting and the brief recess they'd taken to ferry everyone from meeting to transporter pad to meeting).

Now, it was dinner time. Jim's stomach was rumbling and craving lunch, which was _good_ and almost appropriate given what time it was in San Francisco, only he hadn't had breakfast or anything other than replicated coffee since the banquet, and that dinner hadn't really been at dinner time according to his body clock, since it had been early Gamma shift on the _Enterprise_ when they'd beamed down.

Bones would scold him within an inch of his life when he found out how long Jim had already gone without eating. It wasn't that Jim couldn't handle going hungry for a while, but rather that he could handle it _too_ well. Surviving famine and genocide had come with a price. A little too long without food and his body's survival instinct kicked in, the switches flipped in his brain, and Jim would be a mess. His metabolism went haywire, his body stopped sending signals when he was hungry, and when he was reminded to eat, his stomach rebelled. It took only a few days--at most--to get into that mess, but it would take weeks (or months) to get back to normal. The last thing he wanted was to have to worry about an eating disorder while in deep cover. So, he'd really, really like to eat right about now. Hell, he'd eat just about _anything_ right now--anaphylactic shock or debilitating abdominal cramps would certainly be more _exciting_ than another strategy session.

"Excuse me sir," said a young Andorian woman in civilian clothes who appeared suddenly by his side. He was almost convinced she'd beamed in.

"Yes, Ms..."

"T'mara Pylar," she responded, "I'm an attaché to the Federation President. "

Jim nodded in acknowledgement and continued down the hallway at his blistering pace. Ms. Pylar had to jog to keep up, her shiny high-heeled boots clacking against the slippery marble flooring as they moved.

"I'm sorry sir," she said patting Jim on the shoulder.

He stuttered to a stop and inclined his head at her.

Her antennae twitched in response, "I'm sorry, but we have to go around," she waved a hand at a t-junction between halls up ahead. "There is interference that way, we have to cut through the Culture department's screening room, but it will save time and unwanted entanglements." She waved an ident badge at a seam in the wall and it sprung open, revealing a narrow doorway and a dark, cavernous room. "Through here."

"Uh, after you," Jim said with a polite smile.

Ms. Pylar smiled back and led him into the room, lights blinking on in her wake providing just enough room to navigate the small amphitheater. They jogged across a narrow strip of level floor in front of a floor-to-ceiling viewscreen and slipped out another doorway on the other side, spilling into an indistinguishable hallway.

It hadn't been so bad when they were still in San Francisco, Jim reflected glumly. Starfleet Command was familiar, almost comforting, and it was well suited (and accustomed) to dealing with top secret operations and planning. Flag officers and Captains went about their business without fanfare or interruption save the occasional wild-eyed, overeager salutes of young ensigns and cadets. But the Paris, Federation capital, was most definitely _not_ set up for this kind of thing. They'd had to go--packed up the entire intelligence team, the _Enterprise_ senior staff and half the brass and beamed the lot of them to Paris. The Federation President and her cabinet needed to be briefed and given the top secret nature of the assignment, it was a lot less conspicuous to whisk the Starfleet Personnel involved to Paris than it was to ferry the President and cabinet members to Starfleet Headquarters. Of course it was still a gamble--if the Romulans or Orion Syndicate or any other enemy happened to have spies or other intelligence assets imbedded in Starfleet the sudden absence of a bunch of Admirals would certainly capture their attention. The bigger immediate problem, the one that had Jim skulking around the bowels of the Federation Council Complex following an attaché on a labyrinthine path, was the press. They were _everywhere _. The Federation was big on communication, free speech, and open government, and Federation citizens were _obsessed_ with news, gossip, commentary, and any other tidbits they could stream into their communicators or download on their PADDs. To Jim, it seemed like there were reporters and journalists springing from the woodwork and dropping from the ceilings. But then again Jim could count on one hand the number of times he'd been in a situation with significant media attention: most recently was the _Narada_ incident. He'd spent most of it in debriefs and the rest in mandatory counseling. While he was aware there was a lot of _news_ generated by the tragedy, his awareness of the press themselves had been somewhat more dim. He'd delivered one scripted text-only interview and smiled for the cameras first at the subdued graduation / memorial ceremony and then at his promotion, and that was about it. The time before that was Tarsus--Federation officials had made a concerted effort to keep all the survivors out of the public eye, especially the children, and especially those precious few from the kill list who'd made it out alive. Jim had been doubly protected from media scrutiny, but it hardly mattered, he'd been in the hospital and rehab until long after the initial barrage died down. Before that well, before that was the _Kelvin_ , and Jim had been a newborn.__

On the other hand, it wasn't like the press was unfamiliar with _him_ or any of the other "heroes of the _Narada_ incident. They had to avoid anyone who didn't have clearance or need-to-know partial clearance--like he assumed Ms. Pylar had--was a potential threat and leak. Jim needed to avoid those like the plague, hence the skulking around.

"We need to follow this hallway to its end, and the conference room is right around the corner. I have been assured our path is clear," she said slowing her pace.

"Thank you," Jim replied sincerely.

She cocked her head to the side and tapped her ear, drawing Jim's attention to the sleek communications earpiece she had hidden there. "It appears the last advisor has arrived. She will be joining us momentarily as you are both required in this session."

As if on cue two people dropped into step beside them as they passed an intersection with another hallway. It took a moment for the newcomers' identities to register. One was a young human man, dressed in classy civilian clothes, which suggested he was another attaché. The other was Gaila.

"Lieutenant," Jim acknowledged, almost keeping the surprise out of his voice.

"Sir," Gaila replied. Her cheeks were flushed a darker green, and her wild red hair was partially subdued in a hasty bun from which a halo of frizzy strands were already escaping.

Last time Jim had seen her she was wearing her regular duty uniform, but some point in the intervening hours she'd changed into her dress uniform. "I thought you were supposed to be going to Hawaii for your shore leave," Jim stammered feeling like an idiot for mentioning Gaila's obviously cancelled (or at least interrupted) vacation plans.

"So did I." She shot Jim a tight smile. Then leaning towards him she added, "Admiral Komack's XO cornered me when I was on my way to the shuttle bay and uh, spirited me away. She didn't even let me return to quarters to repack. I've got a duffle full of bikinis and tropical shirts." She waved a hand over her attire. "One of the new Ensigns went back to get this and two duty uniforms, otherwise I'd be attending meetings in my Starfleet Academy sweats."

"Glad you could make it," Jim quipped, earning a light swat to the arm for his cheek.

The attachés looked a little ruffled, but backed off when Jim shot them a dirty look.

Gaila looked at him meaningfully and then at their escort.

"If you could excuse us please," Jim said to Ms. Pylar as graciously, but firmly as he could manage. They had no clue he and Gaila had been friends, close friends, and yes, one-time friends with benefits, when they were at the academy. Here they were supposed to be Starfleet Captain and relatively junior officer. They weren’t supposed to be friends, and they weren’t supposed to be survivors. Lucky for Jim, the attachés understood discretion.

"Of course," she acknowledged, motioning to her counterpart.

He dropped back guarding their six, while she hurried forward, taking point. Jim and Gaila were still guarded, but had a three-meter bubble within which to have a mostly private conversation.

Jim was trying to figure out what to say, unsure how much, if any, briefing Gaila had received.

"This is _crazy_ ," Gaila hissed in a half-whisper, gesticulating for emphasis and solving Jim's dilemma.

"So, I guess you heard..." he started.

"Heard? It was the first thing they told me after they grabbed me. I almost choked!" Gaila replied, her tone disbelieving. "Really Jim, this is... you shouldn't be doing this. They won't have to blow your cover. All it will take is the wrong trigger or the right person taking a good look at you--how are they going to disguise you?"

"I have no idea," Jim admitted, "although I don't think there was that much visual reporting outside the Federation." He shrugged taking a moment to think. There were newsvids of the _Kelvin_ , but he’d been an infant then, and he didn’t look _so_ much like his dad that the connection was inevitable, especially not outside the Federation. Tarsus… that had been a Federation tragedy, and he’d been thirteen. Newsvids? Yes. Chances anyone would recognize him? Very low. The _Narada_ could pose more of a problem, but he was just going to have to work around it. "I'm sure there's an expert here to brief us on that and help strategize."

"That doesn't change the point, under no circumstances should you be going anywhere near the Orion Syndicate, not with--"

"They don't know, well Admirals Pike and Archer know, and I think the Chief of Starfleet intelligence, but that part of my file is under seal by the head of Starfleet Medical, and it's not like I can explain without raising too many questions." Jim sighed, looking Gaila in the eye for the first time. "Besides, it would have required convincing them to send Nyota 'cause they sure as hell weren't going to send Spock, even if they did act like they were thinking about it. And if I'd tried that, Admiral Lui would have decried me as a misogynist and had me strung up by my balls."

"Yes, well that's what you get for letting people think you're a womanizer," Gaila shot back.

Jim just shrugged and kept walking. "You're here, aren't you?"

That earned him a scoff so loud and high-pitched, it drew the attention of their escort.

Jim shook his head and the attachés went back to ignoring them.

"I'm here as an advisor. To prepare you for how not to get caught and fucked. Only I can't do that because there is nothing that anyone could do short of erasing your past with time travel that would make your safety remotely achievable. I am not going undercover because that's one step away from suicide and they know that."

They had reached the end of the hall and Ms. Pylar had stopped, poised with her hand over the door, waiting to open it.

"Well, you'll just have to do your best," Jim shot at Gaila before motioning for Ms. Pylar to open the door.

They were led into a round room almost structured like a mini auditorium, but with only three rows of seats and a large central table that could be used as a viewscreen or protector.

Seven uniformed intelligence agents and the Federation President were inside along with Spock and Bones.

Nyota wasn’t there, and although Jim had expected she would be stuck in different meetings, he found himself aching with her absence.

Spock met his eye though, and he held his partner’s gaze until he reached his seat and sat. Only it was more like _stumbled_ because Jim’s body chose that moment to betray him, tell-tale tremors from lack of food causing his hand to slip from as he tried to steady the chair.

Jim _groaned_ the moment he realized Bones was watching. Really, he loved the guy. Bones was his best friend, but Bones was a Southerner at heart too fond of drama and causing a scene, and Jim’s health was one of Bones’s _favorite_ topics to exaggerate.

Across the room Bones nudged Spock, leaned over, pointed at Jim, and whispered something in Spock’s ear. Spock _flinched_ and went rigid, only to open his mic to speak.

“Madam President,” he said graciously, “the members of the _Enterprise’s_ crew have not eaten in some time. Perhaps it would be prudent to start the strategy session with a light meal so we may have more energy and focus for these discussions.”

Jim’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, and right then he wanted nothing more than to smack his head against the table in embarrassment. “Sorry ma’am,” he managed with half-feigned sheepishness. He glared across the room at Bones who was in full-on stubborn mode. Jim could see the vein ticking in his eyebrow from across the room.

The President laughed lightly, and smiled though. “Of course,” she replied, signaling for someone to make Spock’s request a reality.

Two attachés on the far side of the room scrambled to comply. Ms. Pylar and her companion, however, took their seats. _Strange_ , Jim thought.

“If I may begin?” It was Pylar taking, and Jim’s stomach dropped like a stone.

There was no reason for an attaché to convene the meeting.

“Shit,” Gaila hissed in his ear.

“My name is T’mara Pylar and I am the senior Intelligence Officer assigned to Operation Raptor Hunt. I am also an attaché to the Federation President. Our goal for this session is to hammer out the details of Captain Kirk’s undercover mission. Cover, insertion, extraction, communications. Any other concerns such as Medical,” she nodded at Bones, “that could arise. We need to decide that now so we can begin implementing it tomorrow.”

“Fuck,” Jim breathed.

Gaila punched him in the elbow, luckily no one saw. “I can’t believe we talked within her earshot!”

“Tell me about it,” Jim agreed with a renewed desire to melt into the table. The last thing they needed right now was for Intelligence Agents to go nosing around into his past to try to figure out what he and Gaila had been talking about.

After Ms. Pylar dropped her bombshell, the meeting went remarkably smoothly. Jim ate and mostly stopped shaking. The disguise wasn’t much—he’d be getting a dye-job, contact lenses (double duty to change the color of his eyes and help with data recording) and a nifty tattoo, that wasn’t really a tattoo but a communications implant buried within a tattoo. He’d be going in as Ayen Tiner, a member of the Orion Syndicate from the arms side of things, not a new recruit and not a slaver, but an established player who’d been called in from remote operations to join in weapons assembly supervision on base. He had no idea how Intelligence was pulling that off, and part of him really didn’t want to know. If his cover identity was going to be paper thin, he’d rather not spend every moment of the mission anticipating a killing blow. He’d be expected to use his hacking powers and speed reading for good. It was nothing unexpected, and it honestly could have been a lot worse.

Gaila was called on to give an overview of Syndicate practices and protocols she had observed and to “warn” Jim of the types of Syndicate business he might be exposed to or expected to engage in… The whole time she kept kicking him under the table.

As the meeting dragged on, Jim couldn’t help feeling _alone_. It was a relief to see Spock and even Bones, to spend time with Gaila, but he felt not unlike a pig being fattened for slaughter. Everyone else was preparing to support him, strategizing about how they might destroy the base. What they could do _remotely_. They wouldn’t be there. They didn’t have to face the slavers and gun runners, the Romulan officers who unwittingly emulated the Nero, the man who killed his father. With every passing moment Jim slipped farther and farther away. Disconnecting, internalizing. He didn’t want to be in this position again, and yet here he was, preparing to go in undercover, spit and a prayer the only thing separating him from certain death.

Even the Captain of the _Enterprise_ couldn’t escape his past.

 

 **Chapter 4:**

Finally back on the enterprise, Spock, Nyota, Jim, Bones, and Gaila rejoined the rest of the senior staff—who had received the introductory mission description at the disastrous Starfleet Banquet—and the other crew members whose specializations and experience had gained them clearance for the mission. They were gathered in the Enterprise’s war room—a fitting if uncomfortable location—as there were too many to fit around the smaller conference table in Jim’s ready room. The rather cagey, deceptive woman who had accompanied Jim and Gaila to the strategy briefings in Paris had joined them as the Official Starfleet Intelligence Liaison to the _Enterprise_. She was joined by two other intelligence agents, but they seemed to be present mostly for clerical support. Spock hadn’t heard them speak, did not know their names, and had not been introduced.

He found the situation rather _odd_ and a bit disrespectful, perhaps impolite by human standards, but from his past experiences with Starfleet Intelligence it was not exactly unexpected.

Admiral Komak had also beamed aboard with his XO to attend the briefing. He was the one actually rattling off the details and bringing the crew up to speed, much to the relief of Spock who was personally exhausted and knew Jim and Nyota were even more tired than he. It would have been illogical to demand one of them brief the crew, but that was the sort of illogic to which Starfleet seemed predisposed, so he was… Jim might say pleasantly surprised to discover that wasn’t the case.

The details as they came in were astounding, Spock believed humans might call them "blood-curdling." He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple. The Romulans’ plans were _obscene_ , and even if they were strictly the product of the _Tal Shiar_ —he was still getting used to the word—and not supported by the Romulan Senate, it did not make the plans any less destructive. If allowed to come to fruition, the Romulans and the Orion Syndicate could wipe out every other government in two quadrants. They could invade worlds claiming them as their own or leave them broken and destroyed causing maximum havoc and then moving on. The loss of life and destruction of culture would be catastrophic. Each world could be left as broken as Vulcan but without the need for anything as dramatic as a black hole.

Ships with weapons that could devastate starships, reduce space stations to rubble, and penetrate planetary shields; ships that could travel at high warp speeds and then safely descend through and maneuver in atmosphere before landing on a planets surface; ships that could house an invasion force; ships that launched from underground tubes keeping their numbers and presence hidden; that was what the Romulans were building with the Orion Syndicate’s help right on Starfleet’s doorstep.

“I don’t understand, how could something like this get assembled so fast? How are they building so close—in Federation territory—without anyone noticing?” Christine Chapel, trauma expert and the Enterprises chief nurse sounded positively… disgusted. He had lived among humans in general, and Christine in particular, for long enough to know that tone.

Spock cast a sideways glance at first Jim and then Nyota to see if either of his partners were planning to respond.

Jim just rolled his eyes.

Nyota twitched her head—to others it probably looked like she was adjusting her ponytail—subtly signaling “no.”

Spock understood. This was not their mess. While they—he, Jim and Nyota—had a solid grasp of the situation and could certainly explain and hypothesize why the Federation was in this situation it was not their place. The _Enterprise’s_ duties lay in exploration, diplomacy, and defense. They were not supposed to be out there braving the barren wastelands of intelligence like a Vulcan child undergoing the kas-wahn. They should not have to explain a failure that was not their own.

Instead it was the Starfleet Intelligence Agent—the one who had introduced herself to Jim as an attaché to the Federation President and was now _stationed_ on board the _Enterprise_ for the duration of the mission—who spoke. “Ms…”

“Lieutenant,” Christine snapped back.

“I’m sorry, Lt. Chapel,” Pylar began, “As you are well aware, the Federation has been in a state of turmoil since the _Narada_ incident. With the loss of personnel and ships, not to mention the loss of Vulcan of so many billions of lives, Starfleet has been stretched thin. Focus has been on training, rebuilding, cultural preservation, and defense of inhabited worlds. The Corbalis system was uninhabited. Ships on assignment to patrolling the Romulan Neutral Zone pass through the system once every standard Earth year.”

“Wait, wait, Ms…” Chekov began, holding up a hand for Pylar to stop.

“T’mara Pylar,” she said with a gracious nod.

Jim’s annoyed amusement and Nyota’s sarcastic mental laugh washed over Spock’s mind at the same moment. His bondmates were, _pissed_ at this woman, but they found her… antics amusing.

“Ms. Pylar, are you suggesting this facility did not exist the last time a Starfleet wessel did a fly-by?” Chekov asked incredulously.

“There was no evidence of the base at that time, no,” She confirmed.

“It’s not like we could have seen it even if it _was_ there, since it’s 98% underground and shielded,” Jim muttered low enough so only Spock and Nyota could hear.

“How did they build so fast?” Chekov blurted out, joined by Christine and most of the officers in the room in confused nods.

“They Romulans solicited the Orion Syndicate for assistance from what we can tell they have devoted an unusually large workforce to this project. They have not only drawn workers from their own society, but have turned to the Syndicate for labor as well, and seeing as the joint venture between the two entities could be so… lucrative, with the prospect of destroying or weakening the Federation, the Klingon Empire, the Cardassian Union, the Breen Confederacy, and any number of loosely organized words in the Alpha and Beta quadrants, we believe they have achieved this rather remarkable growth through dedication, luck, and force of will.”

“In other words, they built damn fast, and we don’t have a clue how, and it scares the shit out of us,” Sulu said under his breath from where he sat beside Jim, too seats to Spock’s right.

Spock watched Jim smile at Sulu’s all-too-true quip, but something wasn’t right. A wave of fear rolled off Jim so strong it grabbed Spock’s attention.

On his left, Nyota twitched. Apparently Jim’s emotion was strong enough it reflected over to Nyota through her bond with Spock. She shifted in her seat, sliding closer to Spock, and brushed her fingers against his under the table.

Spock glanced around, cautious, not wanting to attract the attention of Admiral Komak or their Intelligence guests, especially not since they still didn’t know about his and Nyota’s relationship with Jim. He did not want to start an incident or inquiry into “questionable fraternization” on the eve of Starfleet’s most desperate undercover mission in at least the last fifty years.

Jim was looking at Gaila who _looked_ perturbed. Angry. She and Jim seemed to be engaged in a form of nonverbal communication—one Spock had witnessed them use a multitude of times over the last eighteen months that Nyota said came from having a common struggle. It took him a moment to realize they were not angry with one another but both felt… _betrayed_ by Agent Pylar.

Spock ran his memory back to twelve hours earlier when Jim and Gaila had come into the strategy meeting. Pylar and one of the two intelligence goons had been with them. She had been leading them.

Jim hadn’t known she was intelligence.

Neither had Gaila.

Pylar and her associate had escorted them and Jim and Gaila had spoken, knowing they could potentially be overheard, but believing it to be by someone with great discretion and without the _context_ to interpret their conversation. That was why Gaila was shaking her head at Jim and Jim… was looking constipated. His face sour, cheeks puffed out with frustration.

Spock didn’t need an explanation to know what they were talking about.

Jim was a survivor first of child abuse at the hand of his stepfather and later of genocide and famine on Tarsus IV. Jim had done everything to survive, including selling and trading his body for food.

Gaila was an Orion and had been born in her people’s home territory, lived within territories controlled by the syndicate until she was 14, old enough to have been sold against her will to pleasure houses that catered to the vices of immoral beings until she had escaped. She and Jim had undoubtedly been discussing how ill-advised his undercover mission was, and they had done so within earshot of the chief Intelligence Officer assigned to this mission. While Gaila’s history was common knowledge, Jim’s was not. This could have very… unfortunate consequences if the Agent had understood what she overheard.

“I won’t let her do anything to Jim,” Nyota whispered in his ear.

Her voice was calming, drawing Spock out of his intense focus. He had been so lost in analysis he hadn’t even noticed his body stiffening or the conversation dying down. No one was staring at him, but Admiral Komak was standing again, addressing the crew.

“That will be all. Thank you people. I will be beaming down to Starfleet Command to monitor the situation from the ground. Agent Pylar will assist in funneling information to and from my office as the mission proceeds. The _Enterprise_ will launch from spacedock as soon as I debark. Everyone who is not assigned to Gamma shift, you are at your leisure for the next ten hours. Briefings will begin at 0800 tomorrow morning. Remember do not discuss the parameters of this mission with the rest of the crew. Dismissed!”

Spock slid gracefully to his feet along with the rest of the room and saluted the Admiral as he and his XO filtered out. Ten hours wasn’t much time, but he, Jim, and Nyota were going to need every minute of it to prepare.

 

 **Chapter 5:**

Sometimes Nyota wanted to kick herself for being duped by Jim’s persona. She liked to think she was a more astute observer than that—after all reading body language and nonverbal cues was a huge part of being good at communications and linguistics. At the Academy, before the _Narada_ , before everything had changed, she had even been courted by Starfleet intelligence. Her linguistic acuity, intelligence, agility, and adaptability had made her a “very attractive prospect.” If she hadn’t already had her sights set on serving on the _Enterprise_ , getting commissioned to the new flagship fresh out of the Academy, she likely would have taken them up on their offer. It would be fun, exciting, important work. _Like what we’re doing now._ But she wouldn’t have had Spock and she wouldn’t have had Jim and she wouldn’t have been out there every day cruising around the quadrant, exploring, protecting their freedoms, forging new alliances. She was a great intelligence prospect, but she’d been completely taken in by Jim. She hadn’t even suspected.

Just like the brass didn’t suspect now.

She shook her head. Now was not the time to dwell on it. The meetings had finally let out, Jim had even eaten again, and they’d beamed back onboard the Enterprise. It was going to take them thirty-six hours at maximum warp to reach the outskirts of the Corbalis system where they would rendezvous with the _Renegade_ technically a Starfleet Intelligence long-range shuttle that was actively in use for deep cover missions with the Orion Syndicate. The renegade and her Starfleet Intelligence crew would ferry Jim to Corbalis, the tiny formerly uninhabited planet on the Federation side of the Romulan Neutral Zone. They would be the last direct contact Jim had with anyone connected to the Federation. After that he would be on his own. He’d have adaptive transmitters for video and audio, would have the ability to send files and data whenever he wasn’t actively being scanned. The transmitters went dormant whenever they could be detected and would look like nothing more than slightly metallic tattoo ink to anyone who looked closely. If he went more than 6 hours without a window to transmit, the “ink” the transmitter was connected to would turn red, and Jim would know he had to try to hack a comm terminal.

It sucked, not to put too fine a point on it. Nyota had no doubt Jim could hack a comm terminal and leave no tracks, but he would still be stuck with no way for _them_ to communicate, at least not in real time. It was part of Nyota’s job to with their oh-so-annoying Intelligence Agent cum Presidential Attaché T’mara Pylar, Scotty, and the rest of the communications and engineering crews cleared for this mission to interface with Corbalis’s communications satellite. They should be able to rig it to send communications pulses twice daily. The pulses would look like static, but Jim’s transmitters could pick them up uplink the data to his PADD, tricorder, or camera. _If_ everything worked out.

They wouldn’t know until they got there, and Jim would already be on the secret Romulan base by that point.

But no, that wasn’t right to worry about now either. Because they had reached their quarters, all three of them traipsing through the door to Jim’s quarters, not caring to bother with appearances, not tonight, and they had thirty-six hours with Jim.

Tomorrow he would get the transmitter implanted. Tomorrow they all had meetings and more briefings and work upon work upon work to complete to make sure the mission wouldn’t blow up in their faces. But tonight they had each other. Tonight they needed to show Jim that they had _him._

Jim entered his quarters first, Spock on his heels, and Nyota a few steps behind.

As soon as the door swishes shut behind them Jim _sags_ , he just seems to fold in on himself, as close to collapsing while still standing as possible. Nyota’s seen him shut down like this only once before, six months ago on his birthday—which of course was also the anniversary of the destruction of the _Kelvin_ , his father’s death, the destruction of Vulcan, and the _Narada_ incident.

Jim _needed_ them. He needed to not be in control, to have someone else take over the decision making, the burdens, the weight of command. He needed to forget and to _remember_ that he could be himself and take pleasure in his body, in his partners, and feel _safe_ … He needed the shame and guilt placed on him by others washed away and replaced by joy, completion, fulfillment.

Nyota made the first move, she always did whenever Jim was the slightest bit withdrawn. It wasn’t that Spock didn’t _love_ them—he had formed Vulcan telepathic bonds with first Nyota and then Jim, a rare achievement for any Vulcan to achieve two such partner bonds, and a sign of complete acceptance, twining and joining of their _katras_. But Spock was… hesitant, by personality and discipline, he wasn’t one to be demonstrative or initiate, especially when one of his partners was so visible overcome by emotion. One thing many outsiders didn’t understand that while Vulcan emotions ran deep and strong, the systematic control and _suppression_ of them meant that Vulcans were all a bit socially awkward around those actively expressing emotion, and what Jim was expressing now was complete emotional devastation.

She stepped up behind him, whispering, “Jim,” in his ear, a moment before her arms closed around him and her lips pressed a kiss to the base of his neck. He still startled, but didn’t jump or lash out. _Mark that as a win_ , she thought. Nyota wasted no time in sliding her hands underneath his tunic and undershirt, rubbing the blunt ends of her black-lacquered nails against his flanks and eliciting a moan.

Jim went limp, surrendering the last ounce of control, his head dropping back onto Nyota’s shoulder as he sagged and let her take his weight.

Nyota didn’t mind, she was strong enough to hold him for a while, and she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

As if on cue, Spock stepped up, and wrapped his arms around Jim from the front, his fingers brushing against Nyota’s as he slid his hands up and down Jim’s torso.

She _cherished_ moments like these, knew Jim did too, because while they both had a bond with Spock, their connection to each other was not cemented in the same way. They could sometimes hear echoes, reflections, of each other’s thoughts and emotions through their bond with Spock, but when they were in contact, when Spock was touching both of them and his telepathy was the strongest, it was as if someone had opened all the doors in their minds, letting Jim and Nyota touch and feel each other in the same way they did Spock. Awareness bloomed with each brush of fingers, Nyota could feel Jim’s pain as if it were her own, he was there beside her in her mind, so afraid, but so determined to succeed. She shifted one hand and caught Spock’s wrist so they remained in contact, ensuring the bond flowed freely among them all, and poured every ounce of respect, love, pride, and joy into that touch, making sure Jim could feel how strong they both believed he was. How much they _wanted him_ just the way he was.

Spock and Nyota moved in tandem to strip Jim’s shirts, pulling them up and off, each keeping a hand on Jim the whole time.

The warm air of the room—both their quarters were tuned just a little warmer than the _Enterprise_ standard in order to provide more comfort for Spock—seemed to bring awareness back to Jim. Suddenly he was panting, speaking, “I—I need, please… Can I—”

“Shh, shh,” Nyota cooed, comforting him, her lips pressed up against his ear, nibbling the fleshy lobe and feeling Jim shudder against her. “We’ve got you Jim, we love you, you’re ours, and we’re going to give you exactly what you need.”

“Need you both,” Jim managed between whimpers, as Spock unfastened Jim’s pants and slipped pants and briefs down Jim’s slim hips, with Nyota’s help. Their fingers traced over the fine curly hairs of Jim’s legs, as he keened and moaned at their touch.

Jim managed to kick off his own boots.

Nyota shared a glance with Spock over Jim’s shoulder, their eyes met, locked, and then they drew together for a kiss, locking lips, mouths opening, light brush of teeth as their tongues explored, Spock’s mouth hot against Nyota’s, they chased each other like that, supporting Jim naked between them before breaking apart and turning, capturing Jim’s mouth with their own.

He keened into the kiss, let his legs collapse further so Nyota and Spock were holding his entire weight. “Please?” he asked between nibbling licks.

“Are you certain?” Spock asked.

Nyota knew he could _feel_ Jim’s certainty through the bond, her body was singing with it, but he needed to _hear_ the words come from Jim’s lips.

“Yes, Sir, need. Need you both to ground me,” Jim answered formally.

Spock didn’t ask again.

Nyota and he shifted their grip, carrying Jim between him to the Captain’s bed, a deluxe, palatial, King-size retreat that was absolutely ridiculously large for one person, but the perfect size for three. Their relationship had a certain dynamic, one of the interesting developments Jim had brought into their lives, but due to the practical constraints of living on a Starship, the demands of their jobs, and having their own military ranks that didn’t mesh well with interpersonal dynamics, they rarely observed formalities or traditions, mostly slipping into the roles semi-casually. Whenever Jim really needed to get out of his head, though, he brought out the formal language and they both knew how to respond. A “sir” coming from Jim was a command to handle with care and step up to the plate. Nyota and Spock were always willing to obey.

Tonight of all nights, Nyota could think of nothing better.

They laid Jim down on the bed, hands trailing appreciatively over his smooth, silky skin. Uhura let her fingers trail over the ink on Jim’s left hip before she broke contact—3941 in Vulcan. To the uninitiated it looked like a vaguely exotic symbol, something that would have led her to give Jim a stern lecture about cultural appropriation and commercialization of traditional values once upon a time. To her and Spock and the small handful of people who understood, it was anything but. It was Jim’s number assigned on Tarsus IV. Marked his place in the 4,000 who were slated to die. The executions had been quick. Governor Kodos hadn’t taken the time to brand or tattoo the numbers on those too burdensome to live, whose lives threatened those of the more worthy. He hadn’t taken the time to put them in concentration camps or exploit their labor. Death had been swift, unexpected. Only a handful had escaped and of those only _nine_ had survived to be rescued, mostly due to Jim’s crazy heroics and selfless behavior. He had inked the numbers into his skin as soon as he could get the permission to do it, because something like that needed to leave its mark, needed to be remembered, visible, tangible to him and to those who cared most.

Jim whimpered a little as Nyota touched the tattoo; his skin was always hypersensitive there.

When Jim was settled, they grudgingly removed their hands.

Contact broken, Nyota’s connection with Jim dropped to an ephemeral shadow, something there, but just out of reach across her connection with Spock.

She didn’t waste time.

She and Spock both undressed quickly and with military precision. He neatly folded his tunic, undershirt, pants, and briefs, arranging them neatly on the chair at the foot of Jim’s—their—bed.

Nyota let her uniform dress drop to the floor, stepping out of her boots as the red fabric slid down her legs. She unhooked her bra and dropped it on top of the dress, and stepped out of her panties on the way to the dresser.

Spock was already getting supplies from the nightstand.

It took Nyota only a moment to find the harness and dildo she wanted, the harness fit like a second skin, snugging the synthetic dick tight to her clit and holding it firmly in place, ensuring she would feel every thrust and slide as intensely as Jim would. The dildo was long and thick, curved, and the color of ebony. Once in place it jutted up from her pelvis a beautiful contrast against her skin—and even more beautiful against Jim’s and Spock’s. It was perfect—not too think that Jim couldn’t take her and Spock at the same time, but big enough that he’d be filled and stretched, owned and filled and grounded like he needed to be.

They had Thirty-Five and a half hours before they reached the rendezvous point, but only nine-and-a-half hours before they had to report to work planning the mission. Tomorrow would be hell for them all. Spock strategizing. Jim undergoing test after test, preparing himself physically and mentally for his role. Uhura analyzing and translating, pouring over the intel and technical data to try and come up with a way they could _talk_ to Jim once he was inside, make sure he wasn’t alone. They might not get another chance to be together like this before Jim left. And with the uncertainty of the mission…

Nyota shook her head, dismissing the thought, and crossed the room to the bed, bringing her arms around Spock as she reached her destination.

Her nipples were firm and erect with anticipation, and he stroked them lovingly, pinching just enough as he cupped her breasts, one hand reaching between her legs, fingers slipping inside, sparks of connection as he touched her deep inside. “So flexible,” she murmured ,against Spock’s neck, nibbling on the skin above his collarbone and smiling as it flushed green.

Spock gave a little grunt—the closest he usually got to emotional expression during sex, and reluctantly slipped his fingers out of her cunt. There would be time for that later, for now, Jim waited and they had a responsibility to him, to give him what he needed.

They shared a knowing glance, Jim was exhausted, boneless, limp and already slipping into his headspace where they’d positioned him on the bed. There needed to make this quick and easy… he didn’t have the energy for any acrobatic positions, not tonight.

Sharing a smile, Nyota took the condom and lube Spock offered and prepared herself as he mirrored her actions. Then she dropped onto the bed, crossing it on hands and knees to spoon up behind Jim.

He stirred as she rolled him onto his right side, purring a little as she brushed her nails across his nipple _hard_ . The dark rosy skin was pebbling, pulling tighter as his nipples awoke to her ministrations. “Are you ready?” she asked, nuzzling the hair on his head.

“Yes, s-sir,” he replied stammering a little as Nyota brought her nails down his stomach drifting _close_ to his erection, but not touching it.

“Come on, lift your leg for me,” she coaxed as Jim complied, looping his leg over her arm. With her right hand, she reached between his cheeks and sought out his entrance, lube slick fingers ghosting over the puckered skin, then pressing harder, begging for entry.

Jim was relaxed and loose from the night before, and his body sucked two of her fingers in greedily.

As she continued to prepare him—murmuring her love into his skin, nibbling against the prominent vertebrae in his neck and upper back, eliciting moans as gasps as her fingers sought out his prostate, rubbing, pressing—Spock crawled onto the bed, knee walking toward them and lying down on his side in front of Jim.. She smiled as Jim keened, his dick jumping, and bouncing against his belly.

Spock wasted no time, lowering himself to lap at Jim’s navel, then biting along the line of Jim’s hip, teeth traveling over the tattoo, tongue tracing the numbers he knew so well, before swallowing Jim down, taking his leaking prick in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks, and sucking it down his throat.

Jim bucked and cried out, only the steadying pressure of Nyota’s hands keeping him in place.

“We have you Jim, we have you,” she promised, breathing the words against his ear.

Spock’s mouth did wonders for Jim’s state of relaxation, and he opened up around Nyota’s hand, welcoming more fingers inside, and relaxing further still with each stroke, each bob of Spock’s head.

Nyota ran her foot over Spock’s calf, cementing their connection, seeking confirmation from him he was ready to move to the next step. Finding the _yes_ in Spock’s blissful mind, full of unrestrained love, she moved, lifting her hips up and back, and reaching with her free hand to align her dick with his hole. The synthetic pressed hard against her clit and she shuddered and groaned, panting, breathing deep to steady herself from coming too soon. In one quick move, she slid her fingers out as she guided her dick in.

Jim whimpered and groaned, tensing and clenching around her as she bottomed out, the motion transferring up the shaft and stimulating her, bringing more pleasure. She moved her hips quickly, snap, snap, snap. Then slowed, pulling out for a longer thrust, arching her back until only the tip of the dildo remained clenched in Jim’s ass, then driving home, _hard_ , hitting his prostate as he bucked and moaned of the bed.

Spock raised his head, from Jim’s dick, sliding up his body and moving in to kiss Jim’s mouth .

Jim seemed too stunned to protest the loss of wet heat around his erection, instead he greedily sucked on Spock’s tongue, as if lapping his own taste from Spock’s mouth, licking until it was all gone.

Nyota saw Jim’s relaxation as the invitation it was to start working her fingers back in alongside her dick. The first finger slid in easily , riding alongside her thrusts, transferring different sensations through the dildo to her clit. The second was a tighter fit, Jim whining a little as his body stretched to accommodate.

Spock shhsed him this time, pressing kisses to Jim’s eyelids, and twisting his nipples hard, until he was arching back sucking Nyota’s fingers into himself with every panting, shaking moan.

Nyota worked in a third finger and then a fourth, the fit deliciously tight, Jim’s hole stretching obscenely around her fingers and the lack of the dildo, but he didn’t seem to notice, just basked in the closeness of his partners.

Spock moved again, getting her attention, and she nodded, understanding his meaning.

Gently, she lifted Jim’s left leg higher, spreading him wider, as Spock pressed against his front, reaching for Jim’s hole, and positioning his erection just outside the outer ring. In a smooth, coordinated move, Nyota slipped her fingers out, as Spock thrust in, the sudden tightness and feel of Spock’s balls pressing against her making her whimper.

Spock grunted, gripping Nyota’s bicep to steady himself, hold on, as the rush of sensation was almost too much.

She could feel how _full_ and owned and loved and grounded Jim felt. She could feel the _safety_ he gained from this—from them.

She could fell the press-rub-press of the dildo against her clit, the catch and drag as Spock slid alongside her, pistoning in as she slid out, working in counterpoint, and keeping Jim on edge. She could feel the hardness of Jim’s dick as she wrapped her hand around it, the unexpected sudden pleasure, as Spock reached down and slid four fingers of his right hand insider her in one move—she was dripping and relaxed, and welcomed the sudden fullness he provided. She knew Jim could feel this too—feel it as she felt it, the added pressure of Spock’s thumb against the dildo, the aching joy as Spock found her g-spot and rubbed hard, the promise of orgasm.

They could both feel Spock and what he felt—love he couldn’t freely express, overwhelming snugness as he slid inside Jim, belonging, home, joy and togetherness that overrode the sadness and grief over the loss of Vulcan.

They moved together, kissing, grabbing, bodies melding, consciousness blurring as they lost their pace and moved with frantic, hard thrusts and aborted pants, all working together to bring each other to climax.

Jim crested first, his orgasm blooming deep inside, electric and hot, shooting out his dick as he began to pump over Nyota’s hand.

She felt it as if it were her own, felt Spock as grew stiff and began to spasm inside her, pulling her into Jim further, pressing up against her g-spot at the same time the dildo squeezed her clit, setting her off. She spasmed and clenched, her inner muscles twitching and pulsing, clamping down hard on Spock’s hand as she flooded him with a sudden rush of wetness.

They moved and gasped together riding out the wave into the afterglow until the position started to get a little stiff and awkward for Spock and Nyota.

Spock pulled out of them both, his movements smooth and calculated.

Nyota eased out of Jim, patting his belly with the hand that had been stroking his dick.

He purred and shifted, but didn’t speak.

She carefully eased her arms out from their positions tangled in his limbs, mourning the loss of contact, and sat up, scooting back far enough to slip out of the harness, set the dildo aside for later cleaning, and toss the condom.

Spock took the same opportunity to wander off the bathroom that linked his quarters with Jim’s and returned with three hot, moist cloths, which they used to clean themselves and then Jim.

Nyota curled up behind Jim again, easing them both under the cover, keeping him in the right headspace, and lifting the covers for Spock when he returned.

Spock wrapped himself around Jim, snuggling into Nyota, like a sehlat seeking warmth and comfort.

Jim chuckled lightly, a smile breaking across his face, as the mental image bounced across the bond.

“Computer, lights, off,” Spock commanded, dropping the room into darkness, the starshine from the tiny points of light shooting by their window at warp speed providing the only illumination.

Nyota kissed Jim’s temple and Spock’s lips and settled down into the pillow, hoping they could enjoy a long, restful sleep.

After several minutes of silence in which Nyota was starting to drift, Jim surfaced. “Thank you, both of you, I love you,” he murmured to the room.

“And we love you, thank _you_ ,” Nyota said.

“You and Nyota are my bondmates Jim, pieces of my soul, you are part of me, it would be illogical to deny you what you need…And, I love you, T’hy’la,” Spock added.

The room fell silent again, and Nyota thought Jim had finally drifted off to sleep.

“The tattoo, my number… not letting them take that. Need it, even under cover, don’t care if it’s a risk,” Jim murmured.

“Of course they won’t touch that,” Nyota cooed reassuringly. “If all the boys and girls you played with before you met us didn’t figure it out, I hardly think it’s going to blow your cover,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper to Jim’s ear.

Spock squeezed her arm and Jim’s as if reassuring them of his presence.

Jim seemed to relax and settle at that, as if the fear of being stripped of the one reminder, the one scar that was _his_ and his choice had been weighing on his mind. After a few more moments, he drifted off and began to snore.

“Goodnight,” Nyota whispered to the darkened room.

“Good night” Spock answered, tightening the circle of his arms around Nyota and Jim.

And finally… she drifted to sleep.

 

 **Chapter 6:**

Jim trudged down the long red-brown corridor with its eerie green lighting. The acrid smell of combustibles and welding solder hung in the air, tickling his throat and making his lungs constrict painfully. It was just Jim’s luck that he was allergic _to the air_ on his undercover assignment. They had anticipated the possibility, of course, and right now he had never been more grateful for Bones being the obnoxious, curmudgeonly loudmouth he was. They had used the data Starfleet Intelligence had gathered both on the construction of the _ship_ , which approximately half the analysts had called a weapons platform and the other half had called a shock transport (it was both), and the assembly and components of the weapons and had tried to develop a medical kit to prepare Jim for exposure. He’d been slapped with more hyposprays in the 36 hours it took the _Enterprise_ to get from Earth to his insertion point than he’d had in the entirety of his time in Starfleet. But they couldn’t immunize and inoculate him against everything so Bones had insisted on sending Jim in with a supply of steroids, histamine blockers, and anti-anaphylactics. Of course hiding them on him had been _very_ difficult, since they weren’t sure how thoroughly he’d be searched and didn’t want to send him in with anything that could compromise his identity or the mission, they’d finally resorted to sewing pill-form medications into the seams if his clothes and giving him a few new (fake) scars on areas he could conceal under his clothes and stashing more pills there under the surgical grade synthetic flesh. He also had two micro-infusers (otherwise known as a very tiny hypospray) each with a pre-loaded injection canister hidden in the soles of his boots ICE... _in case of emergency_. Right about now he was starting to worry, really worry, he was going to need to use both and a lot sooner rather than later.

One if the details Starfleet Intelligence hadn’t uncovered was that _they_ —and Jim wasn’t sure if the source of the problem was the Orion Syndicate or the Romulans or both—were using a nonstandard propellant in their welding torches that mixed with some of the stablizers in the solder (and of course they had to be using traditional welding with solder in addition to the more commonly accepted modern practice of plasma bonding) vaporizing a gas that was probably close in composition to troxamine bromate, a low-end solvent many poorer worlds outside the Federation, and even a few Federation colonies, used. It was harmless to most people—posing more of a threat if it contaminated the water supply or if local fauna ingested it in large quantities—but of course Jim wasn’t most people, and of course he was very allergic.

Right now he was going through pills far faster than he and Bones had planned and would run out long before the _six weeks_ they had projected for him to remain undercover. At the current rate his supply would hold out for just shy of a month, and that was with rationing and assuming the continual exposure didn’t ramp up his sensitivity. If he had to stay longer, the _Enterprise_ or Starfleet Intelligence was going to have to figure out a way to get more drugs to him. Otherwise he would be very dead, very fast. He’d been keeping them apprised of the situation through the adaptive transmitter—just thinking about it made his wrist ache and his fingers itch to rub over the “tattoo”—but he didn’t know if they’d figured anything out because that wasn’t the kind of detail they’d risk sending in advance and so far Nyota’s team had only managed to get the downlink from the satellite to go through once every two days or so. It was his eighth day in this hot, damp, subterranean hellhole, and he ha heard from them three times. If everything went according to plan, sometime today, his wrist would... buzz, and he’d able to read whatever tidbit of data they sent him on his PADD.

As it was, he was walking around with tight lungs, a raspy throat, and a barely suppressed wheeze. The raspiness was doing great things for his cover—he didn’t really sound like Jim Kirk, more like a backwater junkie who’d spent the last 20 standard years smoking any number of illegal and highly destructive substances—but he wasn’t too confident of his lung capacity should he need to fight or run for a prolonged period of time. At least the air was better in the living quarters he’d been assigned. He got at least 4 hours out of ever 26-hour cycle to breathe freely and not feel like he had a two-tonne weight on his chest.

 _Still..._ Jim shuddered as his breath caught in his throat again. It was remarkably unsettling being stuck here knowing that medical attention was not to be had if he needed it, or could potentially be had, but not without unacceptable costs. He’d been in this situation before, and right now that was more hindrance than help. As he struggled to stay in character and still cope, he’d been sliding closer and closer to that headspace, and falling into it could be deadly in this setting. If Jim started thinking like that starving, hunted, kid on Tarsus IV, aspects of his personality he needed to remain hidden would come to the surface and the wrong people could take notice.

Raptor Base was nothing like Tarsus. Nothing like Iowa either. The shuttleport was hidden in a clearing just inside the tree line from the beach, surrounded by palm-like trees and tall ferns, with an entrance to the underground base cut into the bedrock right next door. Most of the complex was five or more levels underground and deeper... the top five levels were reserved for the vertical launch chutes the Raptors used to emerge from their hidden nest. Each ship had its own hangar. Each hangar was lined in deuterium alloy and wrapped in layered shielding. Vertical sliding reinforced metal doors dropped down between each hangar at the press of a button or in case of emergency locking each hangar and its associated complex of rooms off from the rest. It was hot and dark and dank. Sparks flew and coolant dripped and it was _nothing_ like the blue skies and wide-open fields of the two homes Jim had known that had betrayed him. But it was every bit as terrifying.

At least he had resources though. He’d managed to smuggle in two specially modified PADDs, remote detonators, remote activators, explosive tape... all of it hidden in the specially shielded lining of his bag. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and with any luck, he’d be able to figure out how to bring down the Base.

He didn’t want to do it if he couldn’t get the people out, though. The potential collateral damage was weighing on his mind, adding to his stress.

He’d expected to find the Romulans annoying and the Orion Syndicate representatives unsettling. He’d been unpleasantly surprised. The Romulan _workers_ on the base, most of whom were actually Remans conscripted and taken from their home planet the others members of low castes working off debts or trying to get into the good graces of some politician or another, were fine. They were just people like any others. Loyal to their home, wanting a better life—some of them enjoyed the challenge of the work, others believed they were protecting their Country from a terrible foe. He had no problem with them. He had no issues with the supply of mostly-female “pleasure girls” and “pleasure boys,” the sex slaves the Orion Syndicate had supplied the base. Jim had tried befriending them, especially Mina, a young, incredibly intelligent Orion woman who seemed to be their spokesperson, but he’d been mostly rebuffed and regarded with suspicion. They saw him as Ayen Tiner and not Jim. While part of him was glad the disguise was working, the rest was disgusted, skin crawling at the thought of being mistaken for one of _them_. One of the younger pleasure boys had even thought Jim was propositioning him... He’d had to excuse himself to run to his quarters. He’d spent the afternoon that day being sick, clutching the toilet.

It was the rest of the Romulans, the officers and likely intelligence operatives, who disturbed him. They seemed to have adopted the Syndicate’s vices as if they were their own. Using the slaves. Laughing at their plight. Cracking jokes about Vulcan and Vulcans that made Jim’s ears ring. He had to keep reminding himself he wasn’t an adopted Vulcan here and couldn’t defend their honor without blowing his cover. And god, he did _not_ want to be discovered, not by this crowd.

The Syndicate members on the other hand, were mostly okay. Like Pylar had said, they were from the weapons side of the business, so there were a lot of mechanics and engineers and hackers—kids too eager to make a fast buck and too intrigued by cool technology to even notice the moral problems with their chosen profession. In another life and another time, they could have been Jim. Sure they liked to live in the lap of luxury and sometimes partook of the pleasure slaves, but they also liked to talk and talk and _talk_ about their work. He had a feeling some of them were new, green, and stuck here underground to get trained up before they brought hell down on the Syndicate’s head. He learned lots of valuable information from them like how the ships were linked into the base’s power grid and where the extra components for the ships’ power conduits had been stored. Details not directly pertinent to Jim’s cover, but very helpful to his true mission.

The human Lieutenant in the Syndicate, the one person with real power on that side o the equation, Milton Greely, was every bit the twisted, perverted asshole Jim had expected. The man was obese and always smelled like sex and cheap perfume. He spent most of his off hours in slave quarters and looked at Jim like he wanted to eat him. Jim tried to keep up the non-nonsense, tough guy persona around him, but he wasn’t sure it was working.

As Jim walked, he inclined his head in a curt-but-polite nod towards the Romulan in charge of “Project Raptor.” _Commander D’Chavek i’Ra’tleihfi tr’Sovor_. He claimed to be an ordinary Commander in the Romulan Guard, trained in starship and weapons engineering he had been given oversight the project due to his ability to effectively supervise the work. He would also take command of the fleet of Raptors when they were completed, the completed Raptor One slated to be his flagship. Of course Starfleet Intelligence believed he was actually Tal Shiar, and actually a Colonel in their ranks. After a week of surreptitiously following the Commander around, Jim was one hundred percent certain Starfleet Intelligence was right. There was no way this guy was regular military. An engineer, sure, but he struck Jim more like the kind of person who observes a society and then engineers a way to achieve its complete and utter destruction.

“Good afternoon Mr. Torv, isn’t it a pleasant day?” D’Chavek called out to him.

Jim had almost opened his mouth to reply when he realized that _wasn’t_ what D’Chavek had said. He’d spoken in Romulan, and Jim had almost risen to the bait. “Excuse me, sir?” he stammered instead.

“My apologies,” D’Chavek said, his voice slick and sticky as he spoke in Standard.

Jim felt dirty inside just listening to the man.

“I had heard you had an impressive vocabulary and valuable language skills, and thought perhaps you knew Romulan,” D’Chavek answered smoothly stepping closer to Jim.

Jim was immediately uneasy, as much as he needed access to the information D’Chavek had as badly as he needed that access, spending time with the man made him sick. D’Chavek was too much like every other person in Jim’s past who had seen him as a commodity, not a person. D’Chavek spoke to him with respect, but Jim got the feeling it was entirely faked. “No sir,” Jim said, gulping, his throat tighter since seeing D’Chavek. “I can speak Klingon and Andorian and seven languages from Earth, but no Romulan, I’m afraid. No offense.”

D’Chavek just looked at him for a moment, staring through him. “You’ve been here two weeks now, has anyone taken you on the tour? I know SubCommander Lepat has had you running back and forth from hangar to hangar inspecting our ships.”

“No, sir, I haven’t had a tour yet,” Jim hedged, unsure if he liked where this conversation was going.

D’Chavek smiled, the lines of his mouth upturning while his ridged forehead furrowed into a scowl. “Very well, then come with me. Mr. Greely seems quite impressed with your performance so far. We like to show promising young officers our appreciation.”

Jim smiled blankly and agreed. Which was how he found himself wandering through the underbelly of the base, strolling through rooms that didn’t officially exist on any blueprints. D’Chavek had personal quarters with a semi-public office that jutted out away from the base, specially carved into the rock to conceal their presence. They adjoined directly to the slave quarters, which turned his stomach, but he couldn’t really say he was surprised. Two hangars over there was another room that jutted off the map, and after D’Chavek opened it with his thumbprint, but Jim was surprised to learn it was actually Mr. Greely’s office suite and personal recreation space.

“We are partners,” D’Chavek reassured him. “Surely you understand the concept? Mr. Greely and I share leadership of this base, and we must sometimes have access to each other’s work and spaces in case of an emergency.”

Jim nodded, kicking himself for showing surprise, and tried to ask “appropriate” questions for the remainder of the tour.

When he returned to his quarters—really just a small bedroom with a toilet and shower—two hours later he was shaking with disgust, but wasted no time in uplinking the information through his implanted transmitter.

Starfleet knew what he knew. Now, if only he could figure out a way to use the information to destroy all thirteen of the prototypes and the stockpile of weapons before someone figured out what he was up to.

 

 **Chapter 7:**

It had been two standard weeks--fourteen days, eleven hours, seven minutes, and twenty-nine point four two seconds, to be exact, since Jim had boarded the _Renegade_ and gone undercover. Despite round-the-clock work, the crew still hadn't figured out a way to stop the Romulan plot, nor had they established reliable communications with Jim. His transmissions were making it out, but they were only able to respond approximately once every fifty hours. The intel Jim had provided said there were multiple prototypes. Thirteen ships. More by half than the initial Intelligence report had suggested. Jim’s last message had indicated he had located the weapons stockpile and _should_ be able to remotely hack the operative ship’s self-destruct using a comm station in the Base Commander’s office, but he still had no idea how to destroy the other ships or guarantee that the detonation of the self-destruct and the stockpiled PSN cannons would take the ships out for him. Apparently the shielding that kept each hangar free of sea water and safe for habitation also acted as a buffer, containing the explosion and directing it upward.

But Jim had been silent for too long now. And Spock was beginning to ... worry.

Nyota had been spending hours after every translation and intelligence analysis shift cloistered away in engineering with Scotty, Gaila, Keenser, and whichever lieutenant or ensign was on duty, struggling to find away to compensate for the interference that was hampering sky-to-ground communications. Nyota hadn't said anything, but Spock could feel the tension and frustration radiating off her, turning to discouragement, self-blame, and guilt. Every day, every hour, every idea that passed without finding a solution, her mood grew worse, darker.

There was something else there... Again, he hadn't come out and asked Nyota about it, not because of illogical avoidance, but because he couldn't quite put words to what he was sensing. It was not just Nyota, he could sense something was not quite right. He kept looking at the pieces of the puzzle--those working on the mission, the intelligence they had gathered, the problems they encountered, and the solutions they sought--and it did not "add up," as Terrans were fond of saying. He was missing something, but he did not know what. The answer was elusive, yet as the days went on, he began to believe identifying it was the most important task in the mission before them.

"I'm worried about Jim," Nyota said plainly, dropping exhaustedly into the chair across from Spock, a cup of steaming replicated coffee cradled between her hands.

It was the evening of the fifteenth day, and they were in their quarters, both if them avoiding Jim's rooms on the other side of the bathroom. The space felt too empty without him in it.

Nyota was straddling the chair backwards, her forearms resting on its high back. It was singularly reminiscent of Jim, and Spock felt his heart flutter with unexpected, uncontrolled emotion. The long hours, lack of sleep, and constant alert were taxing even his resilient Vulcan constitution.

He cocked an eyebrow at Nyota and took in her attire--she was back in her standard duty dress, hair pulled high in a ponytail. It was... relieving to see her back to normal. For several days she had actually worn the Starfleet pants and tunic, despite her professed hatred of that uniform. He had asked her about it earlier--four point three days ago--when she had first donned the unusual attire, and she had confessed she required the extra protection for her limbs because of so many long hours crawling around Jeffries tubes and working on the communications array.

"It is logical to be concerned for Jim. He is undercover in enemy territory and the odds of success are uncertain." Spock would freely admit logic was not much of a refuge at present. There were too many unknowns and he lacked perspective. His own concern for his absent bondmate continued to grow, his emotional control becoming more and more strained. The _Enterprise_ was spending most of its time hiding in the magnetic and mass distortion fields provided by the solar system's Oort cloud, and the distance was too great to feel Jim. The absence was unsettling, and he... worried, Nyota was being harmed by his distraction.

“Spock, it’s not that. We should have been able to get more frequent windows to respond to Jim. The interference pattern and signal intensity when we’re _not_ trying to access their system shows that we should have two windows every day. But whenever we try, it’s... I think they’re jamming us.” Nyota’s eyes were full of fear as Spock met her.

“That would mean...”

“That means Jim’s compromised. We haven’t heard from him in a _day_. That’s the longest he’s gone without a transmission,” she pointed out.

Spock slid his hands forward and clasped Nyota’s right hand between his palms, strengthening the connection between them, steadying himself with the intimacy. “But your team has encountered difficulty with the down link since we arrived, and yet Jim has remained in contact. Logic suggests they do not know the identity of their spy,” Spock concluded.

“Or they didn’t, but now they do or they will soon. And it’s not just that... Pylar has been stonewalling us,” Nyota replied.

“What do you mean?” Asked Spock, emotions shifting and pushing against his control. Something akin to _dread_ or maybe apprehension slipping through the cracks.

The door chimed at that moment, interrupting them.

“Hold that thought,” Nyota said, jumping to her feet and almost knocking the chair over. She scrambled to the door pressing her palm against the manual release rather than speaking.

Spock was curious as to why until he saw the relief that crossed her face when the door slid open to reveal Chekov, Sulu, and Bones. Clearly there was someone Nyota did not want to enter. And if these three were here, then Mr. Scott was probably on the bridge.

“Keptin Spock,” Chekov blurted as soon as they were inside, “you have to do something. Agent Pylar is not taking Keptin Kirk’s health seriously. We are wery, wery worried. She has taken no steps to ensure he will receive more medication when he runs out. We have made many suggestions, but still she says no.”

Spock stood, something inside cracking further, the iron tight grasp on his emotions slipping, losing traction.

“The kid’s right. She’s up to something and she’s gonna get Jim killed. His last two transmissions said he was taking the asthma cocktail more frequently. His supply won’t last another week,” Bones interrupted.

“This is what I mean, Spock. Intelligence is keeping something from us. I think they know they’re compromised and they’re sacrificing Jim,” Nyota replied her eyes tearing and voice soft.

“Where is she?” Spock asked, not recognizing his own voice.

“In her quarters last I checked,” Sulu answered, his face looking a little shocked.

Everything went hazy after that. Looking back on it, Spock would realize he’d had the same feeling on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ eighteen months ago when Jim had taunted him into revealing his emotionally compromised state. But right then it was just fog under a haze of rage. His _bond_ was threatened. His bondmate in peril. Nyota’s bondmate in peril. The deck disappeared under his pounding feet, the turbolift swished around him, and somehow he was at Agent Pylar’s door, forcing entry.

“Commander Spock!” She exclaimed, eyes going wide with shock. “What’s wrong? Has—”

But he had already crossed the room in two strides, his hands flying to her biceps, gripping her y by the sleeves of her lack uniform. “What are you not telling us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Commander, I am sharing all the intel we have gathered. Everything to help Kirk succeed—”

Her lies were so transparent Spock felt nauseas. “It is Acting Captain Spock, and do not speak if you cannot tell the truth!” His voice thundered around her small quarters. “I know Starfleet Intelligence’s presence is compromised. I know the Romulans,” he spat the word, “are blocking our transmissions. I know we have not heard from Jim in over a day,” Spock marveled at his own lack of precision, “and I know you are denying my crew opportunites to send life-saving medicine to Jim.”

“That’s not true,” Pylar protested, slipping into another act.

“No, what’s true is that you have put my T’hy’la, my bondmate—Nyota’s bondmate—in Jeopardy. You have exposed my family to a grave threat and refuse to explain why or what is happening. You seem intent to sacrifice the Captain of this ship when we have been told his mission is of the utmost importance and the Federation will not survive if he fails. You have left a man behind enemy lines and ignored his pleas for help despite your promise of support.” Spock released her with an abrupt shake, leaning, looming towards her instead. “I want to know why and I want you to tell me right now.”

“You are emotionally compromised—”

“Yes,” Spock agreed, not caring that it came out in the same tone as the old Earth saying _duh_. He stepped closer as Pylar tried to back away.

“Starfleet regulations say you must relieve yourself of command—”

“Don’t quote me regulations you yourself refuse to follow!” Spock growled, he placed his hand on the wall to the side of Pylar’s head, having backed her into the wall.

“You’re in a relationship with two other officers, members of the command team, you have not cleared—“

“Oh my god, shut _up_ , lady. We know about him Uhura and the Captian. We don’t care. Keeps them from killing each other, keeps us happy. Now just tell the current Captian of this ship what the hell you’ve done to his husband and quit whining already.”

Spock turned his head as Pylar craned her neck, the movements in perfect sync.

It was Sulu who had spoken. He and the rest of the command team, minus Scotty (and, of course, Jim) had gathered in the doorway and they were glaring at the intelligence agent with a fervor Spock had seldom encountered.

Pylar seemed to sag, gesturing at Spock to step away.

He grudgingly complied.

She began to pace, arms crossed against her chest, eyes fixed on the cabin’s carpet. But at last she spoke. “We knew the Orion Syndicate had probably intercepted our last communiqué with the _Venture_ , we had to go forward anyway because there was no time. We didn’t realize until much later—after we got here, that they had intercepted the _Venture’s_ last communication to Starfleet Intelligence too. We thought they might have an indication were sending an operative, we didn’t realize they knew what intel we had on the base gong in. We had hoped Kirk’s identity would remain a secret—“ She looked up at Spock. “Are you certain they have identified him?”

It was Nyota who answered. “It’s been almost twenty-seven hours without contact. It’s possible he’s busy, but given the content of his last message...”

“It is logical to assume they intercepted him and know what he sent to us. He would not wait so long to communicate otherwise. They know how he intended to strike and would have had the opportunity to lure him, trap him in the act,” Spock completed, his chest heaving with the vestiges of rage. He could not calm down. No meditation techniques helped, even discussion of logic could not make the ache and anger inside him subside. Every instinct was screaming to him that Jim was in trouble. He could not believe he had ignored it for so long. He realized in that moment he had more in common with his Romulan cousins than he would ever willingly admit, but he did not care. Just as long as he could go, get Jim, and bring him home.

“That is unfortunate. I am sorry for your loss,” Pylar began, earning a choked gasp from Nyota, cries of shock from Sulu and Chekov, a “goddamnit” from Dr. McCoy, and a howl of anguish from Spock.

Spock glared at her, advancing towards her again. How _dare_ she suggest Jim was lost to them.

But this time Ms. Pylar did not seem distressed. “Listen to logic, Commander, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. If we let the Romulans believe they have caught their spy. If they believe he was acting alone, when they see no one comes to rescue him or reacts in any way, they will believe they thwarted our mission and Intelligence can send someone in again. Someone _trained_.

Shouts and swears erupted around the Intelligence agent’s quarters, Dr. McCoy’s “Are you out of your mind!” rising over the rest.

Everyone turned to look at Bones who had stepped into Pylar's quarters and was standing, fists clenched in the middle of her floor. “How, who, what are we going to send and when? You’re the one who told us, confirmed it, you said we had less than six weeks. You took the numbers Jim has been sending us and you said they could have five ships ready in three _months_! If we lose Jim we’re not going to get another chance. You’re delusional!”

“Or have you been lying to us about that too?” Sulu asked. “Are you saying Jim was feeding us misinformation? Or that they were faking the data he sent _before_ they knew who he was?”

“No,” she retorted indignantly. We may not have another chance, or we may. We will have to try again. But there is absolutely _nothing_ we can do to help Captain Kirk now. Not without endangering the _Enterprise_ , or are you forgetting they’ve got a flight-capable ship with armed PSN cannons down there. I can’t risk you. The Federation needs you.”

“Well maybe you don’t want to risk it, but we can risk ourselves!” Sulu shot back.

“I’m not leaving Jim down there,” Nyota warned, meeting Spock’s eyes across the room.

“Well you don’t have much of a choice, Lieutenant,” Pylar yelled, “because I am _not_ authorizing a rescue mission and you are not going down there. That’s an order.”

“Last I checked, you weren’t in command,” Bones snarked.

“He’s emotionally—”

“We don’t care!” Chekov said cutting her off.

Spock nodded at the curly-haired teenager, thankful for his support.

Pylar started to open her mouth again, but Spock couldn’t take it.

“Enough!” he bellowed. “Chekov, Dr. McCoy, you’re with Lt. Uhura and myself. We will require your assistance to plan and prepare. Sulu, report to the bridge, you have the con, tell Mr. Scott to meet us in Transporter Room three, we are going to need his help. Send Gaila too if you can find her, and get a security team down here to guard Agent Pylar’s door.”

The others responded with a chorus of “aye sirs,” and began to dart from the room.

“You are confined to quarters until such time as Captain Kirk is safely returned to the ship or I declare the mission a failure,” Spock said to Pylar and stormed out.

 

 **Chapter 8:**

It was midnight local time when Jim finally made his move. Kreeshan flu had been tearing through the base (and Jim had never been more grateful for Bones and all his stupid hypos as he was right now). The guard rotation had been reduced, and Jim had overheard D’Chavek complaining that there weren’t enough guards free to monitor the surveillance cameras. Jim had seized the opportunity to slip a hastily written bug into the automated computerized backup, feeding it into the system through the secondary relay station outside the mess hall, so he was confident his actions wouldn’t be observed.

The first step was to track down Greely, which he’d done. This time of night the rotund man invariably visited the mess hall for a late night snack or visited the pleasure girl of his choice in the slave quarters. A quick trip by the mess had turned up empty, so he’d hurried to the slave quarters, pacing in front of the door until Mr. Greely finally emerged.

“Oh, Mr. Greely, I’ve been looking for you,” Jim babbled the second the man was in the hallway. He kept talking, careful not to give Greely an opportunity to stop and think or interrupt. “We’ve had another injection pump malfunction in Raptor Thirteen,” he bullshitted. “We’re shut down until we can get the parts, and sector control is refusing to release the shipment without your thumbprint.” Jim held up the PADD knowing it wouldn’t pass inspection if Greely looked to carefully.

He didn’t; his eyes just glossed over the contents, spotting the bolded text, which reinforced Jim’s story, and pressed his thumb to the sensor pad.

“Thank you sir,” Jim replied in feigned cheerful sincerity. His face felt wooden as he forced it into a smile.

“No problem, eh?” Milton Greely said, “Have a good day, Tiner!” slapping his shoulder and shooting him a too-appreciative look. He strode away from Jim, leaving him alone in the corridor outside the slave quarters.

He didn’t care if the sign on the door said “worker housing” in Romulan and Orion, pretty words couldn’t disguise what it was.

Jim cringed at the name and shuddered, trying to shake of the itchy feeling of impending doom. It was foolish, he knew better than most to trust his instincts, but the creepy, crawly feeling under his skin wasn’t helping matters any. He _knew_ his excuse for being down here was flimsy at best and he’d almost certainly get caught as soon as he took his next step, but he didn’t really have much choice.

He flicked at the hem of his work shirt’s sleeve again, stomping his foot in frustration when he saw the line of red still running through the center of the tattoo. He hadn’t been able to get any communications out in over twenty-four hours. It might have been longer, but he’d been distracted wiring auxiliary weapons controls on each of the twelve partially built ships. It had been an opportunity too good to pass up. One of the engineers got sick along with two dozen workers—apparently someone other than Jim _did_ have allergic reactions to the air, and Mr. Greely had asked him to “see what he could do” about keeping construction on schedule. It was a little outside Jim’s ordinary purview, but no so far he couldn’t get away with it. So he shuffled the remaining workers around, using the shortage as an excuse to do more of the work himself, and insisted on doing an “inspection” on each ship as it was completed.

Of course what he’d really done was cross wire the primary relay circuits that handled power flow between the reactor and the weapons and install one of the remote activators he’d smuggled onto the base stitched into the lining of his shoulder bag. The weapons weren’t installed yet and the reactors weren’t online, but that didn’t matter. Each ship was tied directly into the generator for its respective hangar, getting power that way until the reactor came online. If Jim or _someone_ could activate the weapons interface remotely the power overflow buffer would fail causing a catastrophic overload that would flood right back into the generator. Boom. Boom. Boom. If only he could get far enough away to do it.

But first, he needed to free the workers. Starfleet could bitch at him all they wanted about unnecessary risks, but he wasn’t going to leave slaves there to die at his hand.

He punched in the code he’d seen the guards use and stepped inside. “Mina,” he called out, getting the attention of the head “pleasure girl” and not caring if anyone saw or heard him.

“Mr. Tiner, how are you?” She cooed, the false cheer not quite covering her nerves. “Can we service you today?”

Jim crossed to her and took her hand, steering her to the corner of the common area that ran along the front of the large warren of tiny rooms. “Listen to me, I need you to do as I say and don’t ask questions. This is a list,” he slid the PADD out of his pocket and handed it to her, “for every security checkpoint between here and the shuttle bay on the surface. I want you to take it and use it. Round everyone up, everyone who will listen, workers, pleasure slaves, I don’t care, anyone who’s around, you see them, you tell them to go. Take this and go. It’s important.”

“Ayen, what? Why?” She asked, her eyes wide and panicked, her green skin turning pale.

“I can’t answer. No time. And that’s not my real name. I can’t explain, but I need you to trust me. Just do it. I know what they’ll do to you if they catch you. I know, I know—I’ve—I know they’ll beat you, rape you, maybe even kill you. I’ve been in your shoes,” he watched her face change sliding from confusion to anger to shock and finally to recognition and understanding. He nodded. “You’ve got to take the risk. Things are about to get very, very bad, and if you don’t go, you’ll probably die anyway. I need you to promise me you’ll go.” He looked her in the eye, imploring, until finally she bobbed her head in agreement.

“Okay, yes. I’ll do it.” Her hand shook as she took the PADD glancing at it quickly before slipping it inside her dressing gown. “What—what’s your real name?” she stammered.

“It’s Jim,” he whispered and then he was off.

He jogged across the entry way and through the central corridor towards the back of the slave quarters. There was a door here. He’d been through it once before when D’Chavek had taken Jim on the tour. They had walked through the anteroom to D’Chavek’s office and into the slave quarters, so he should be able to reverse the process and break into D’Chavek’s office that way. It was possible the door could only be accessed from the outside, but D’Chavek didn’t strike him as the kind of person who would willingly limit his exits. Frustrated, Jim kicked the wall, jaw dropping in belief as the panel hissed, and the section of wall popped out and slid to the side. He might have ridiculous luck, but sometimes that played in his favor.

His heart pounded in his ears as he slipped through the opening, pressing the obvious door activator on the other side to ensure it closed behind him. He was in the anteroom now with it’s unassuming desk and computer console, an ornate decanter of Romulan Ale resting comfortably on the corner of the desk. He catalogued and ignored it, heading back instead, jogging down the short hallway, passing two doors—bathroom, bedroom—until he reached the third door at the back. This must be the door that led to D’Chavek’s office.

Hands trembling with too much adrenaline, he held up Greely’s thumbprint to the sensor holding his breath. D’Chavek and Greely were working together. He’d observed D’Chavek coming and going from Greely’s office, he just hoped the mutual access worked both ways. Otherwise he was _screwed._ The lock clicked.

He was a still little wary that all it took was a well-placed kick and a thumbprint to get into the Base Commander’s personal office, but he couldn’t dwell on that. There wasn’t time. D’Chavek _was_ arrogant, and under normal circumstances, the setup was quite secure. Every movement of every person on the base was monitored by computer living guards working in tandem. The base layout was deceptive, the suite essentially existed off the map. The back wall of the slave quarters should have been built against solid bedrock. The likelihood of someone even getting to this part of the base without an express invitation and a tour guide was exceedingly slim. Hell, Jim never would have found D’Chavek’s suite if not for the tour.

The comm console was on the far wall part of an elaborate complex of computer consoles and a strange vertical set of drawers that were built into the wall. Now, if he could just get Greely’s thumbprint to access it he could upload his reports and send them to the _Enterprise_. They wouldn’t have much time to act on the information, but maybe he’d have half a chance of getting beamed out of the shuttleport as all hell broke lose. IF that worked, he could turn around and use Greely’s account as an access point to access Raptor One’s Computer and trigger the self-destruct.

Jim was halfway through uploading the files when he felt the air shift behind him. He’d had no warning, no sound or indication. A disruptor whined and all he knew was darkness.

~~~

“James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the Federation Starship U.S.S. Enterprise, Starfleet Serial Number SC937-0176 CEC.”

 _Fuck!_ It was D’Chavek’s voice. Jim was numb, starting to tingle-- _stun blast_ \--and strapped to some sort of chair. Only it wasn’t an ordinary chair. He could feel the hard metal edges digging into him on all sides, multiple straps over his arms and legs, across his chest, blunt metal on either side of his head, holding him steady, as sensation returned.

He blinked, the room spinning. He couldn’t really move, couldn’t turn his head, but he could make out the silhouette of D’Chavek leering at him. “Go to hell!” he spat.

D’Chavek laughed. “Ah that infamous spirit and cheek! Your reputation suits you.” He took two steps closer leaning in. “I shall _enjoy_ breaking you.”

He wouldn’t be the first person. Jim just rolled his eyes at that.

“You’re probably wondering how we discovered you,” D’Chavek continued.

 _Oh great, a pontificator_ , Jim groaned inwardly. The only good thing about enemies that liked to hear themselves talk was sometimes they talked so long they gave you time to escape.

“Your friends in Starfleet Intelligence aren’t nearly as stealthy or subtle as they think. We _observed_ your survey craft and intercepted one of its transmissions. We knew we would be getting an undercover agent, we just didn’t know which of our employees it would be. The Syndicate has Federation citizens working for it if you know where to look, so Mr. Greely was kind enough to run the pictures of all incoming workers by his colleagues. And wouldn’t you know it, a week ago someone recognized your face from a news broadcast,” D’Chavek approached him then, pressing some thing behind the chair. For a moment the straps on the left side of Jim’s body and the metal beside his head loosened. Before he could react D’Chavek had physically gripped his head and turned it, forcing Jim to stare at the strange stack of drawers on the wall before the restraints tightened again, holding Jim in that position.

“Look closely,” D’Chavek said, crossing the room to the drawers, “behold my aerreh eiuuh… It contains my most treasured possessions… Possessions that give me the power to destroy men’s minds and bodies, unravel their very souls.” He turned back to Jim fixing him with a hungry smile. “You will become… intimately… familiar with its contents.”

Jim swallowed hard at the implication, breathing through his mouth with big gulps of air to quell the rising panic. Before he could get himself under control, D’Chavek was behind him again, fiddling and manipulating until Jim was strapped down facing forward again, unable to see the aerreh eiuuh or the comm or the computer except as a blurry spot in the corner of his eye.

“I am surprised Starfleet would send you to us. After all, you survived the _Kelvin_ , and the _Narada’s_ destruction of Vulcan—thank you for that information by the way—and even the genocide at Tarsus IV… But that didn’t leave you whole, did it? You’re scarred, broken inside. Your body has been fighting you, rebelling since the moment you arrived. You have so many… disorders, diseases, deficiencies, abnormalities… it’s a wonder Starfleet allows you to wear their uniform, let alone Captain their precious flagship,” D’Chavek hissed, his voice cold, cruel, and singularly amused.

“Well what can I say? I’m _special_!” Jim spat, forcing every ounce of self-confidence and bravado he had left into his voice. He struggled against the restraints, hands fisting and clenching, trying to press down into the unyielding, cold metal of the chair’s arms, but the bands wrapped around his wrists wouldn’t budge, if anything, they pulled tighter. He tried forcing his head to the side too, straining against the band fitted snuggly over his Adam’s apple, pressing his left ear into the sharp edge of the metal “blinders” that cradled the back of his skull pressing tight enough to keep him from turning his head to the side or leaning more than a few degrees in any direction. As he thrashed, the band around his neck _definitely_ squeezed tighter, digging into his trachea and threatening to cut off his air supply. _Figures_ , Jim thought bitterly. He was already in enough trouble, the last thing he needed was additional oxygen deprivation.

D’Chavek had wandered off to the side of the room where his comm station and other consoles were located; it was a calculated move. He was hovering just out of the limited line of sight granted to anyone strapped in the chair with its unforgiving neck restraints. Jim couldn’t quite see what he was doing, but out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw D’Chavek reaching into the multi-level storage unit he’d called his _aerreh eiuuh_ —loosely translated, “treasure chest”—and removing several items. Then D’Chavek turned, shifting slightly, and Jim _definitely_ saw D’Chavek holding two vials up to the light—one emerald green, the other the red of human blood—and withdrawing fluids from both using an old-fashioned silver hypodermic needle. The amber light glinted off the steel of the needle, promising pain and torture. “Well, I am certain you _are_ special, but not in the way you are thinking,” D’Chavek crooned as he turned back to the mysterious treasure chest.

Jim knew it was intentional. Psychological warfare meant to break the victim. D’Chavek was exaggerating every move, making sure Jim could see just enough to get the worst ideas about what was in store, but not enough to know what was actually coming. Classic technique to keep the victim on edge, let them imagine the worst, ensure they panic when you actually deliver the blow. He knew it. He’d _experienced_ it before, long before he was ever trained in how to resist it, how to rationalize it, recognize it, and work around it. Starfleet’s mandatory ATARTESE program—Anti-Torture Awareness Resistance Training Evasion Strategy and Education—made sure all command track cadets knew both sides of the equation and how to survive without giving up classified information or losing your shit. But Jim knew from personal experience no amount of training could _ever_ get rid of that dread of the unknown, the realization another had absolute power and control over you, the understanding that your survival was dependant upon the whims of an immoral power-hungry man… He shook himself, daring only so much movement as wouldn’t trigger the bands tightening again. No. _No,_ he couldn’t go there. He could dread all he wanted, but he had to disconnect, not care. If there was any way out of this mess—and he had no clue if it was—slipping into flashbacks of being a thirteen-year-old on Tarsus and letting D’Chavek gain psychological control over him was a surefire way to lose.

After all, with his luck, whatever was in that giant, pointy needle, it wasn’t going to work the way it was supposed to, not on Jim. He quite possibly might have a fatal reaction to it and then this would all be over nice and fast, but hey, at least that way he’d be spared further torture, rape, and whatever else D’Chavek and Milton Greely had in store for him.

Instead he went for the only thing he could that might break D’Chavek’s control. “You’re Tal Shiar,” he said, his voice even, his eyes pointed straight ahead, staring blankly at the ornately draped wall across from him.

D’Chavek froze, Jim couldn’t see it, but the sudden _slap_ D’Chavek’s hands made against the wall or console was loud enough to convey the motion.

 _Good,_ he’d rattled him.

“How do you know that name?” D’Chavek demanded, cold and threatening.

Jim just smiled, but didn’t answer. “I’m betting you’re pretty high up too. A Colonel? That’s one of their highest ranks right? You’re not a Commander in the Romulan Guard like you’ve been pretending. Do your men even know? Or are they Tal Shiar too? See, I haven’t spent enough time with them to figure it out.”

“I said,” and suddenly D’Chavek was right next to him, his breath hot against Jim’s cheek his lips hovering millimeters from the metal pressing against Jim’s ear. “How do you know that name?”

“You would know how we know if you bothered to _talk_ to people rather than hiding inside your precious Empire and plotting to commit genocide,” was Jim’s only answer.

The sharp, backhanded cuff to his left cheek wasn’t unexpected, but it still hurt like a motherfucker. Worst was he couldn’t roll with it, the metal blinder on the right side froze his head in place and forced him to take the impact of the blow, digging into his right cheek and ear _hard_ as his head was unceremoniously shoved against it. He felt blood spurt in his mouth, the inside of his cheek gashed on his tooth at the same time he bit his tongue, and he was pretty sure a few of his molars felt loose. Damn superior Romulan strength! He spat blood, not caring where it landed, and snarked back, “Watch it, I’m just a weak, fragile human over here. Wouldn’t want to kill me by accident before you’ve done whatever it is you have planned for me.”

D’Chavek showed an amazing amount of restraint and didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he stepped back, pacing around to the front of the chair staying on Jim’s left side, but just inside his field of vision. “I am defending my people. We are hunted, reviled in this galaxy for deeds we did not commit.”

Jim noted his choice of words, filing the knowledge away. So this Romulan at least didn’t see the destruction of Vulcan, a Klingon Armada, a third of the Federation’s ’Fleet, and the near destruction of earth to be _crimes_. He was probably grateful, impressed by the boldness of the move, but dismayed about the timing. It made sense. Jim doubted most Romulans were actually that bigoted, but D’Chavek would have to be an exception, at the extreme, no one else would have been as successful with _Project Raptor_ in such a short time. “Aren’t you the slightest bit curious _why_ the entire quadrant thinks the Empire is responsible? Don’t you want to know _how_ they did it?” Jim hoped the words distracted D’Chavek, because he was onto other strategies. He’d waylaid the Tal Shiar Colonel for the moment, the loaded syringe still held in his hand, but almost forgotten. Now, step one, how to get out of the chair. Jim shifted from side to side, testing how much he could move his weight without triggering the tightening mechanism on the straps.

“Are you implying you know?” D’Chavek’s tone was one of disbelief. “If the Federation _knew_ then how did it get caught so… what’s the Terran term, _flat-footed_?”

Jim wasn’t going to dignify that with a response. It was a ridiculously cheap—almost amateur—shot to get a rise out of him. “Well, see the whole scenario is kind of hard to believe, but essentially in an alternate future Romulus and Remus were destroyed by some sort of supernova phenomenon the Federation Ambassador who was trying to stop it created a black hole to prevent the devastation from spreading any further, and a mining ship with a particularly bitter and vengeful captain got sucked into the black hole ahead of the Ambassador and traveled back in time, destroyed a Federation starship—thus creating a different timeline—and proceeded to lie in wait for twenty-five years until the Ambassador’s ship got through with time dilation and wound up back in our timeline. Long story short, the crazy future Romulan destroyed the Klingon Armada busting out of prison, captured the Ambassador, marooned the Ambassador, destroyed Vulcan, destroyed a third of Starfleet’s active vessels, and tried to destroy Earth. He wound up getting sucked into another black hole.” Jim shifted again, his stomach lurching when he felt the chair rock. _Huh_ , apparently it wasn’t bolted to the floor, which, considering he appeared to be in D’Chavek’s personal quarters, made sense. He doubted it would be _practical_ to have a torture chair bolted to one’s office floor. “I offered to save the Romulan captain, but he wouldn’t have it, so I blew up his ship and let the black hole have it,” Jim taunted with a smile, his mouth stretching around the pain in his cheek and tongue, muscles already growing stiff. He wasn’t sure it was enough to cover up his distraction at discovering a potential advantage, but it sure seemed to piss of D’Chavek.

 _Smack!_

Jim’s lower lip split under the blow, but it didn’t hurt as much as the last blow since he had a little more room to move his head forward and back than he did side to side. He filed the knowledge away again. Now, if he could just get a sense of how the restraints were integrated to the chair, how they were attached… He could probably knock the damn thing over, and it might not choke him, but it would undoubtedly give him a good knock to the head and injure whichever side he landed on—the chair didn’t provide any side to side protection for his arms and legs, the arm rests and legs were narrow enough that his arms and legs actually bulged over the side where they were strapped down. But he was _very_ reluctant to take his eyes off D’Chavek to get a look at the restraints. “What, you don’t believe me?” he asked, spitting blood at D’Chavek this time.

“I suppose the Federation ship this _future_ ship destroyed was the _Kelvin_?” D’Chavek scoffed, he had returned his attention to the syringe again, which was _not_ a good sign.

But it did give Jim a second to glance down at the bands wrapped around his arms while D’Chavek was absorbed in appreciating his very big needle. _Not metal. Woven synthetic, off-white, looks very familiar…_ Jim snapped his eyes up again just as D’Chavek was turning back to him. “Yes, it was,” he replied. Now why did the restraint material seem so familiar…

“Likely story, sounds more like a fairytale a pathetic, wounded animal tells itself to justify the worthlessness of its existence,” D’Chavek replied.

Jim had to blink at that because D’Chavek had spoken in _Romulan_ , and Jim wasn’t sure if D’Chavek was baiting him or if he already _knew_ Jim spoke the language, three dialects in fact, which was very scary because most of the _Federation_ didn’t know and…

“I know you understand,” D’Chavek said in Standard, leaning in close to Jim’s face again. “You showed far too much… recognition when I showed you my _aerreh eiuuh_ ,” he scolded.

 _Shit_ , Jim chastised himself. Really, he should have covered better. D’Chavek didn’t know he could speak it though and… oh screw it, if he made it out of this alive there was no way in _hell_ D’Chavek was making it out too. He’d kill the monster if it was the last thing he did. “It’s not a story, it’s the truth. I have no shame about my past and even if I had avoided losing my father, I still would have been at Tarsus, Jim snapped in Romulan, his words clipped. It as true too. He would have started out on the other side of the equation at Tarsus, and his path to survival would have been a _little_ different, but he would have wound up in the same position. He knew. The Ambassador’s mind meld had shown him.

“I shall rather enjoy watching you scream, revealing you for the worthless whore you are.” Was D’Chavek’s reply. He stood up stepped back and readied the vial.

Shit, shit, shit, he was running out of time. What to do, what to do? Where did he know the—harness? Suddenly he was back at the Starfleet Dinner and Ball, smiling at Spock across the table as Spock attempted to pick up breadsticks with his fork in observance of the Vulcan tradition of not _touching_ one’s food. He’d gotten distracted, looked over at Commander Abrey of the _Cochrane_ and she had been manipulating an image of a restraint system—a harness—on a pad. They’d chatted, she’d explained… Right, it had been designed for emergency protection in high speed shuttlecraft and sub-orbital cars, the system was supposed to tighten with strain to protect the user from being thrown forward. The material used was very durable, great tensile strength and resilience, couldn’t easily snap, and could be formed so as to minimize the likelihood of accidentally cutting passengers who were thrown against the restraints. There was just one problem, the whole thing was controlled by computer, usually mounted in the seat, but the processor’s they’d used hadn’t been designed to sustain enough Gs or high impacts, which meant the whole thing risked shutting down and the restraints releasing if subjected to a great enough impact. She was trying to redesign the system with better inertial dampeners in her _spare time_ , which had kind of thrown Jim for a loop.

If this chair used a modified version of the same system…

Jim’s eyes focused and he realized D’Chavek was staring at him. _Double shit._

“I doubt you’re going to get off on doing anything to me. You’re a sociopath, you don’t care,” he mouthed off. “Now Greely, I believe it. I’m sure he’d like nothing more than to… use me… before putting me on the market,” he shot a sloppy grin at D’Chavek. “I’m sure he’ll be real pleased when he sees how you’ve been messing up his merchandise.” Jim pulled his grin wider, ignoring the searing pull in his split lip to maximize the effect. He was still trying to figure out the force and angles necessary. Which way to tip? Might the processor be? D’Chavek had stood behind him and slightly to his left when he had strapped Jim in, right? Or as he to Jim’s right? The memory was foggy—damn stunner—and Jim hadn’t paid nearly enough attention. The processor should be where the controls were, the chair was metal, the floor was stone. It would hurt like hell, but maybe it would do the trick?

Jim was jerked out of his fervent contemplation by D’Chavek’s positively deranged chuckle. “Oh I may be a sociopath, but I am perfectly capable of _partaking_ when the occasion arises.” He leered, gesturing at his groin.

Jim’s stomach lurched and his breath came in frantic, panting gasps. D’Chavek’s uniform was tented outward and he was moving closer… Standing up straight his crotch was just about level with Jim’s mouth.

 _Flashes, hard unyielding hands, rigid flesh, sticky, hot, awful, moans and pants, “Such a good little slut,” voices, too many voices and hands. Forcing, into him, inside and in his mouth and, swallowing, choking, swallowing…_

Jim flinched, reflexively shying away from D’Chavek as the flashback consumed him. The restraints immediately tightened, causing him to cry out in pain as they compressed the bones in his left arm, where the restraints were already tightest. He gasped, panting, trying to suck in breath against the sudden constriction around his throat. _Do not have a panic attack, breathe!_ He scolded himself, clinging to years of training to claw his way out, calm himself down. It hadn’t happened yet. D’Chavek could leer at him and threaten him all he wanted, but until he actually acted, there was still time. “You really think I won’t bite,” Jim hissed back, his vision clearing a little, his mind back in the here and now.

“Oh, I’m sure you will, that’s why I have this?” he gestured to the syringe and immediately moved in, jamming the needle hard into Jim’s left forearm, like he didn’t care where the needle landed.

The pain was immediate, searing, unrelenting as the needle jabbed a nerve and skidded off bone, sending fire and spasms up Jim’s arm, making his stomach roll further. He didn’t even want to think about how the bastard hadn’t bothered to sterilize Jim’s skin first. Bones would kill him if he wound up getting some hideous infection from a Romulan intelligence officer with a fetish for old-fashioned medical paraphernalia. He panted out, realizing D’Chavek was watching him, he hadn’t depressed the plunger yet. “What the fuck is in that?” Jim wheezed, his body tensing, weight shifting to his right side.

He had to act now and maybe, just maybe he could knock D’Chavek over as he tipped the chair. Of course there was every chance D’Chavek could break his fall, defeating the purpose, and strangling Jim in the process, but it wasn’t like he had much choice, and it wouldn’t be all that pleasant for D’Chavek either.

“Oh, just a little cocktail the Tal Shiar developed. Or rather, two cocktails. One will make sure you tell us, whatever we want.” The “us” very clearly including the conspicuously absent Greely. “The other will ensure your… compliance and non-resistance,” he said almost fondly, patting Jim’s unbruised cheek as he did so.

And wasn’t that just Jim’s luck. He’d never had particularly good reactions to truth serums, paralytics, or sedatives; hell, his metabolism tended to rebel with anything requiring anesthesia, which was a source of never-ending consternation for Bones. Chances were this was going to go very bad, very fast. Probably involving anaphylaxis and death. “You know that will probably kill me, right? Or did you not read my medical file that closely,” he said, voice deadly serious and remarkably clear for the first time in two weeks.

D’Chavek just glared at him, the ridges on his forehead somehow more prominent with the expression, his one-time handsome facial features, turning sinister in the room’s eerie amber light.

Jim shifted his weight further, feeling the restraints on the chair’s left side squeezing impossibly tight.  
He began to depress the plunger.

Jim’s veins were on fire. His arm was throbbing, but it didn’t matter, he used all the leverage he’d gained and _slammed_ his weight to the left, leaning pushing, bindings clawing at throat, chest, thighs, calves, and his arm—oh god it hurt. But then he was tilting and tipping and D’Chavek was making an alarmed sound and leaping backwards even as the chair collided with him, tripping him.

 _Crack!_

Jim and the Chair slammed down against the stone floor, hard. The wind was immediately knocked out of him, and he felt with sickening certainty as both bones in his forearm snapped, a resounding echo of the chair slamming into the floor. His knee left knee collided with the stone hard enough to make his leg spasm, as his left shoulder bounced and slipped, as sharp pain stabbed into the left side of his head, blood spurting from a gash on his ear as the blunt edge of the blinder smashed into the side of his head. His teeth clacked forcing him to bite his tongue again as the restraint around his throat, squeezed in, crushing. Too tight, horrible pressure, he could feel his windpipe starting to collapse. Nothing had hurt like this since he’d gotten Spock to show just how emotionally compromised he was by taunting him on the _Enterprise’s_ bridge in the middle of the _Narada_ incident. Fuck. He _missed_ Spock, he missed _Nyota_ , he missed the _Enterprise_ and her crew. He wanted to be home. To see them one more time, but he was dying here, sparks before his eyes, edges graying to black around the edges. His vision tunneling, the pain growing numb, his limbs cold. He was dying alone and none of them were here with him, and he just _wanted_ —

Three things happened in such quick succession for the rest of his life Jim would _never_ be sure of the order or cause and effect. The restraints suddenly went lax, releasing and retracting from his body. He fell sideways and forward and out which itself caused two things to happen—his left shoulder slammed hard into the floor and then buckled forward, rolling under him and slipping out of the socket with a sickening “pop” as his body weight fell onto his injured arm, and his legs kicked out, pent up muscles finally achieving their goal as the restraints sprang free and knocking _hard_ into D’Chavek’s belly, sending the man tumbling to the ground again with a pained “oof.” At the same time he felt it, the flare of life and light and hope at the base of his skull, the back of his mind, as Spock’s mind reached out and touched his through their bond. Through Spock he could feel Nyota, and they were both there, so close… _Hurry!_ He called out with his mind, sending all his fear and nervousness and desperation into the plea.

For about three seconds everything was quiet, and Jim could breathe again, the relief from the release of the crushing pressure that had constricted across his body blocking out the pain of bruises and lacerations and broken bones. He completed the natural roll his body had started, tucking his knees up underneath him and balancing there, his legs still to numb to stand.

But relief was short-lived as fire began to travel up his arm again into his chest, as the room wavered in front of his eyes, threatening to tilt and swim, as his throat began to constrict again, lungs seizing up, as his brain seemed to turn fuzzy, the hum of distant insects filling his ears. It took him a moment to figure out what was going on, and he looked down at his arm, the needle with plunger and the drugs D’Chavek had begun to inject tickling back into his awareness.

The skin of his arm was torn and bloody over the obvious (and wrong) lump and bulge of displaced bone. The needle had snapped off, part of it still buried in his skin, the rest was still attached to the syringe, which was lying on the floor underneath him, half empty. _Half empty._ The syringe was still intact, there was none of the partly mixed red and green liquid on the floor, which meant… Which meant…

Jim wheezed, his brain just couldn’t quite compute, concentrate, until that little voice in the back of his mind that had always stuck with him—for better or worse—in the most fucked up situations spoke up. _That means half of it’s in_ you _. The blood flow to your arm was cut off when he injected it, so you didn’t feel it right away, but when the restraints released it flooded your system._ Right. Great. Shit. And if the tightening sensation and tickle in the back of his throat were anything to go by, he was going into anaphylactic shock. He wasn’t sure if he was feeling all the drugs’ intended effects, but he was definitely having trouble with vision, hearing, concentration, balance. He tried to push himself up to a crouch with his good arm, but his legs collapsed beneath him and he slumped down onto his side, rolling, falling onto his back. There was something… Something he could do.

Motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Jim’s head snapped around his stomach threatening to rebel as the amber light and red tapestries swirled before his eyes.

D’Chavek was moving. Coming toward him, at Jim.

He couldn’t really tell how badly the Romulan was hurt, but it seemed the man wasn’t moving properly. He was staggering, a half-crawl, not standing from his knees, and one arm was clutched to his body. But then he was lowering himself, leaning, looming over Jim where he still lay.

Adrenaline surged through Jim’s body, easing his breathing a tad and clearing some of the heaviest fog from his mind as it did so. _Fight or flight._ Only for Jim it had always been more like fight or fight, and he didn’t really have _flight_ as an option right now anyway. As D’Chavek was lowering himself over Jim’s body—and even in his compromised state he could think of at least two things the Tal Shiar Colonel might be trying to do and Jim was definitely _not_ on board with either of them—Jim snapped out with his right leg, the reinforced metal toe of his boot connecting soundly with D’Chavek’s crotch. His kick wasn’t quite full strength or totally coordinated, but it was enough to make the Romulan collapse and double over in pain.

Of course the problem with that was he fell _on_ Jim, which did all kinds of horrible things to Jim’s mind, and without thinking he was lashing out with all limbs—even the broken arm—pushing, shoving, sliding himself away kicking, head butting. Somewhere in there his bruised knee connected with the Romulan’s stomach, his good knee hit his groin again, and then Jim was scrabbling, crawling, somehow on top of his attacker.

All he could think about was superior Romulan strength and how he was already weakened and he could feel his body succumbing to the drugs again, his breath coming harsher, wheezing more, his throat constricting. But he still had the syringe, broken needle or not, it could still…

D’Chavek was screaming something at him. Calling him names in Romulan that even though Jim understood he couldn’t really hear. D’Chavek was pushing at Jim’s right arm which now clutched the syringe, but he couldn’t let him get it away.

This was life or death, and—damnit—he had a mission to accomplish and he wasn’t going to die at the hands of another asinine, power-hungry jackass who thought certain people were better than others, more _worthy_ to live. He couldn’t let this man attack Earth or any other unsuspecting planet. He wasn’t going to let this man violate him. He wasn’t—

He brought his hand up and away, swinging his arm back, shifting the syringe so the broken needle was pointed downward and swung, dropping his arm like a hammer and jabbing the broken tip into D’Chavek’s throat hard. The needle tore and skipped as it hit tendon and bone, but Jim couldn’t care, couldn’t pay attention, he was busy pressing the plunger, trying to get it down, inject the rest of the drug before D’Chavek could gain the upper hand.

D’Chavek’s hand came up, grabbing Jim’s face, clawing, scratching. He was trying to gouge at Jim’s eyes, so he turned his head, years ringing, room swirling, and squeezed his eyelids shut. The man’s hand came down on his mouth and nose, squeezing, trying to smother him, and Jim’s nostrils were filled with the tang of fear and sweat and something nauseating and musty and sickly sweet that tasted of decay. Jim tried to bite, but he couldn’t open his mouth.

The plunger finally bottomed out and his hand slipped with the sudden change in resistance. The needle snapped sideways, and his good arm fell at an awkward angle across D’Chavek’s neck. He could feel the tacky warmth of blood and hoped it wasn’t his, but he was still squeezing his eyes shut, so he couldn’t see, and he pushed, pushed with all his strength—the air wasn’t coming any more, tiny sips and gasps were all that was making it into his lungs—and fell forward, not caring about how D’Chavek’s fingernails gouged his cheeks. He pressed, pressed, he thought he heard a crunch of bone, and suddenly he was falling, collapsing as the resistance that had been holding him back vanished.

Jim kicked and squirmed fighting for air, trying to fight of the seizures he knew were right around the corner, his muscles were rebelling, but he dared open his eyes—

And gagged. He had fallen onto D’Chavek their faces centimeters apart, his spit flecking the D’Chavek’s face as D’Chavek’s sightless eyes, the whites shot green throughout with burst capillaries, stared up to meet his. _Dead_ , he was dead and Jim could stop needed to…. Needed too…

Suddenly it wasn’t D’Chavek’s dead eyes looking up at him, it was Kodos’s twisted (and very much alive) glare, Frank’s hateful grimace, his mother’s tears, the dead eyes and bloated corpses of every person he’d known on Tarsus who hadn’t made it, and he was reeling back. Crabwalking backwards with one arm and half-numb legs, and lungs that still couldn’t get air, and he was gagging, but nothing would come out. _He’s Dead, Jim_ a voice that sounded too much like Bones’s echoed in his head. It made him want to laugh hysterically, but he still couldn’t breathe. _Why couldn’t he breathe?_ There were hypos in his shoes.

He was still scrambling, dragging his body with one arm, pulling himself across the floor towards the comm station, trying to get as much room between him and D’Chavek’s all too life-like corpse as possible. His good shoulder connected with the wall and then he was grabbing at his shoes, forcing unresponsive fingers to find the hidden lever that would open the tray the held the hypos. He couldn’t find it, but he had to.

 _Snap-hiss…_

The compartments snapped open a pre-loaded vial attached to a tiny hypo contained in each. He almost dropped the too-tiny cylinder as he tried to bring it up to a suitable injection location. And really, how utterly ridiculous would that be for him to get his far and what, die now, because he couldn’t slap himself with a hypo? He managed to keep his grip, and brought his hand up to his hip where a narrow band of skin was exposed between his work shirt and pants. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. He couldn’t even move his other arm right now, and there was no way he was holding the hypo and wrestling with his clothes one-handed. He still hesitated a split second, hating the way hypos always _stung_ , but pressed the transducer to his hip and activated the button.

As soon as Jim finished his hand spasmed, the hypo falling to the floor with a clatter and rolling away. The drugs flowed through his body in a rush, but he was starting to seize, vision graying again, brain shutting down from lack of oxygen, muscles contracting… for a minute or two he wasn’t sure I he was dying or getting better, but gradually the spasms subsided and his throat and lungs began to open again, oxygen flooding into his cells with each labored breath, each breath less labored than the last.

He focused on breathing, slowly, calmly. Just in and out. In and out. He had another hypo if he absolutely needed it, but he wasn’t going to use it now, not when he didn’t know how he was going to react to whatever drugs D’Chavek had given him. It would suck to use it now only to realize later the reaction was biphasic and suffocate all over again. Before then he had to get up, access the console, locate Greely. Unlock the holding cells. Activate the _Raptor One’s_ self destruct—it should take out everything in the facility, especially once the initial explosion hit the first of the stored PSN canons and stockpiled munitions. With any luck Jim and any other innocent people in the vicinity would be long gone by that point. He didn’t want to blow up the damn place with him in it. He’d still have to somehow destroy the other prototypes in their hangars, but he’d worry about that later. Maybe Spock and Nyota could help?

That tickled awareness in his mind, something that had given him strength earlier, when he was still in the chair, only he’d dismissed it because he hadn’t had the concentration to spare, but he could have _sworn_ he felt Spock an Nyota through the bond…

“Jim? Jim?” Nyota’s voice called.

Was he hallucinating? He flopped back against the wall and lifted his too-heavy head up, world still fuzzy around him. Maybe it was a hallucination, but there were Spock and Nyota running towards him. “Hey guys, glad you could make it,” he stammered before his eyelids slipped closed again with exhaustion.

 

 **Chapter 9:**

The transporter ride down to the base had been—bumpy. It shouldn’t have been possible, but Nyota knew every adjustment and calculation Scotty and Chekov had run to get them through Corbalis’s weird magnetics and jamming and hack into the receiving pad at the spaceport without triggering every alarm on the base, and she believed she could feel every fluctuation in the program.

The countless hours of testing, research, and experimentation trying to get the stupid comm system to work were really responsible for their successful arrival. Nyota hated that they’d wasted so much time on a problem Pylar knew couldn’t be solved, but she wasn’t going to begrudge the assistance it had given them.

There was no one around when they materialized. It was late, almost midnight local time, but still Nyota was surprised. Raptor Base was supposed to run ‘round the clock, ensuring the utmost efficiency. “Where is everyone?” She asked.

“I believe Jim said something about a severe strain of flu,” Spock observed.

“Right.” Nyota was already moving, her modified tricorder held out in front of her. “I’m not picking up Jim’s transmitter, but I think it’s all the jamming—they were definitely blocking his signal,” she held the tricorder out in front of her, “on the other hand, here’s the door.”

It hadn’t taken them long to open the door, take the turbolift down to the base and over to the main hangar, the one Jim had said housed the completed ship. They’d expected more resistance. Each was armed with grenades, two phasers, and a tricorder. They’d also brought a well-stocked first aide kit. What they found instead was pandemonium.

People were running. Streaming into the lift as they tried to exit. Nyota could hear distant disruptor fire growing closer, and rounded a corner to see officers in Romulan uniforms firing on men and women dressed in bed clothes. “I have no idea what’s going on, but I have a feeling Jim’s responsible,” she murmured.

Spock agreed, taking and squeezing her hand and they set off running.

The signal still didn’t clear up. It was by chance that they actually found Jim. As they tried to follow the schematic Jim had uploaded depicting the rough location of the base’s hidden rooms, they ran into a tall Orion woman with big eyes who looked more startled than hurt as she picked herself up off the floor.

“Hey, hi, can you tell us what’s going on here?” Nyota asked, feeling a little desperate.

“You should run. We don’t know what’s happening, but Ayen—Jim, Jim told us to run,” She replied.

“Wait, did you talk to him recently,” Nyota asked.

“Him?”

“Jim?”

The woman’s eyes focused narrowing. He came through the slave quarters told me to get everyone out then headed to the back,” she replied.

 _To the back…_ Nyota and Spock turned to one another, eyes locking as the realization dawned on them.

“D’Chavek’s quarters,” Nyota said.

“Likely,” Spock agreed.

“Listen, thank you Ms…”

“Mina,” she replied, “you should run.”

“Thank you, Mina. We’ll run, but… we have to get Jim first,” Nyota answered tugging at Spock’s hand and resuming their course.

They came across Milton Greely just outside the hidden entrance to D’Chavek’s chambers. He was actually struggling to get through the door to D’Chavek’s side, but hadn’t waited for it to open all the way and was temporarily stuck.

“Freeze!” Nyota shouted at him.

His back was to her and he whirled around free hand raising a Romulan disruptor as he did so.

“Milton Greely,” Spock said gravely.

Greely’s expression was almost comical as he took in their appearance—first Spock’s obviously Vulcan features, then the Starfleet uniforms, finally the phaser Nyota had trained on him. He poised the disruptor to fire, finger twitching on the trigger, but Nyota was faster.

Her phaser beam hit, and Greely crumpled to the floor in a heap.

That was when they found Jim, or rather _felt_ him. Both of them.

Nyota had sprinted, shoving off the walls, bouncing on doors in her haste to reach Jim’s side. She could feel his desperation, how close he was to falling over the edge, and she _couldn’t_ let it happen.

Spock couldn’t either. She could feel his determination as if it were her own. Together they skidded through the last door and stuttered to a stop, taking in the tableau before them.

Upended metal chair, clearly designed for torture, restraints trailing slack across the floor. Spots of human blood. A body—D’Chavek by the look of it, twisted and bloated in death, an old-fashioned syringe sticking out of his neck. And…

“Jim? Jim?” She cried out, sprinting forwards, Spock hot on her heels, skidding to her knees as she reached him.

“Hey guys, glad you could make it?” he quipped in a drunken, wheezing voice before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed against the wall.

“D’Chavek is dead,” Spock confirmed, stopping to run his tricorder over the body.

“Jim’s a mess,” Nyota confirmed, wishing she’d dragged Bones along with them. But really, it had made more sense for him to stay on the Enterprise, so he’d be there to put Jim back together when they got back.

“He has a pulse, but his breathing is erratic, and he has sustained extensive injuries,” Spock said, reading off the results of quick medical modifications Bones had made to their tricorders.

“Those numbers don’t look right,” Nyota said. “Did he—” her gaze drifted to the syringe in D’Chavek’s neck, her eyes tracking down across Jim’s body taking in the bruised trachea, bleeding ear, dislocated shoulder, broken arm, and… “Oh shit, he injected Jim first. “I’m betting whatever was in that,” she pointed at the syringe, “is what that,” she pointed at the needle sticking out of Jim’s arm, “injected.”

They wasted no time, conducting a rudimentary analysis of the sample, cross referencing it with the chart Bones had given them—complete with color-coded instructions, and loading up two hypospray vials that should at least mitigate the effects if not alleviate them altogether.

It took a few nerve-wracking moments, but finally Jim came around, blue eyes fluttering open, recognition immediate. “You guys really are here,” he said in disbelief, “thought I was hallucinating.”

“We could not leave you. It would be illogical to allow your mission to fail,” Spock said, leaning over and touching Jim’s unbruised cheek.

Jim shuddered for a moment, his eyes getting lost, almost slipping into a flashback and then he was back, grasping Spock’s hand with his good hand and smiling up at Nyota.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she scolded. “Care to tell us why everyone’s running and shooting out there and saying you told them to leave?”

At that Jim jolted and began struggling to get up, gasping in obvious pain as his bad arm jostled.

“How ‘bout you talk, I’ll try to stabilize your arm, and Spock can do whatever it is you’re jumping up for?” Nyota suggested.

“I—I rigged,” he swallowed, “rigged the other ships to blow. Chain reaction. Need the remote activator, there’s one in my pocket, or you can transmit the frequency to the _Enterprise_ when we’ve got signal. I let everyone out, told them to run. If they make it to the shuttleport they’ll be okay. I just couldn’t leave them. We’ve got to help them—refugees.”

“Just hold still,” Nyota muttered, hating herself for what she was about to do. She grabbed Jim’s left bicep and pulled, bracing herself against his chest until his arm slipped back into its socket with a sickening lurch.

“Ow,” Jim protested.

“I can splint your arm now, but I’m not touching that needle, how you feeling?” She asked.

“Still,” he waved his hand in front of his face, “fuzzy. He didn’t sterilize my arm before he injected me, ‘m probably gonna get all kinds of nasty diseases and Bones’ll kick my ass.”

Nyota and Spock shared an uneasy glance.

“T’hy’la,” Spock began, “did he—”

“No,” Jim said shaking his head emphatically. “He tried, but, I decided to make a break for it,” he gestured at the overturned chair. “Gotta send Commander Abrey a thank you card after this—Same harness system we were talking about at the Banquet,” Jim explained when he met Nyota and Spock’s blank stares.

“So, the other hangers are rigged to explode, we just need to give the frequency to the _Enterprise_ , what about _this_ hangar, and the ship?” Nyota asked, sidling up next to Jim’s good side and wrapping her arm around him, taking his weight and helping him lever up to his feet.

“Comm system,” he pointed over his shoulder. “Need the PADD—there.”

Nyota looked, but Spock spotted the PADD, first, discarded on the floor near the overturned chair, but undamaged.

“Musta dropped it when he stunned me,” Jim muttered. “Anyway, Greely’s thumbprint’s on the pad, use it to access the system, link in the PADD it’s pre-programmed from there, but we’ll only have ten minutes from the time it transmits to detonation. Oh, and there’s a message… make sure it plays the message, we’ve got to get the people out. Gotta show the Romulans we’re not like what they think.”

Spock was already following Jim’s instructions, so Nyota finished steadying Jim and encouraged him to take a few steps. He was limping badly, but could walk.

“You’re a mess, babe, how’d you do this to yourself?” she asked pressing a kiss to his temple.

“It was all D’Chavek,” Jim answered. “I’m glad he’s dead.” His tone was hollow, empty.

Nyota squeezed him tighter, but Jim winced, so she loosened her grasp.

“It is set,” Spock announced, turning back to them and looking uncertain. “I would help—”

“My side’s too banged up,” Jim confirmed.

As he spoke, klaxons began wailing. Nyota could hear a recording with Jim’s voice sounding far too wheezy to be healthy, begin to play. “I think that’s our cue to leave.”

They set of at a jog, the fastest Jim could manage, with him wincing every step of the way, his broken arm clutched to his chest.

Nyota didn’t say anything when they passed Greely’s body, but Jim seemed _relieved_ to see it.

They retraced their steps up through the levels and had made it to the main hangar, when their luck turned.

Until that point everyone had been running, screaming, frenetic action and motion in all directions. Too many people crammed in the dank and musty base, too busy running for their lives to pay attention to people in Starfleet uniforms.

The first shot was a complete surprise, the disruptor blast clipped Nyota’s shoulder, stripping off a portion of her sleeve and leaving a shiny burn in its wake. “Shit!” she murmured, ducking, trying to steer Jim with her, and glancing over her shoulder.

Romulans in uniform. They had come up the tunnels behind them and were circling around, blocking the way to the turbolifts. With only three of them, and Jim injured and three _dozen_ healthy soldiers armed with disruptors, the odds were not good.

Nyota was still running, dragging Jim now at a half crouch, when the second shot hit, slamming into a stack of crates to their right.

The topmost crate spun off, slamming into Spock’s temple, and knocking him to the floor.

“Spock,” Jim gasped.

Nyota dropped, keeping Jim with her, and reaching for Spock’s out flung hand. His fingers closed around hers, and she let out a tiny sigh of relief. He was just stunned, and already coming around. She watched the confusion blink out of his eyes as he reached up with his other hand to dab at his temple. It came away bloody.

“We can’t make it to the turbolifts,” she yelled over the riotous noise.

“There are only three minutes and forty-six seconds remaining,” Spock confirmed, his tone sober.

“Gotta get to the ship,” Jim panted, tugging on Nyota’s hand, and trying to prop himself on his good knee.

“To the ship that’s about to explode, taking this hangar and all the PSN cannons with it? She asked, alarmed.

“Ship’s got a lift and it’s on the lift. We raise the ship so the top level is above water, and we run out,” he explained, glaring at Nyota like she was being silly on purpose.

“Jim, won’t that take time?” she demanded.

“It’ll be tight, but right now I’m not seeing any other alternatives. As long as the ship-mounted cannons remain inside the hangar, it should be enough to take the hangar with it, and contain most of the blast below ground,” he panted as Nyota helped him to his feet.

They were bent at the waist and shuffling forward, trying to use the tools, carts, and other obstacles around the hangar as cover. Luckily—or unluckily—they weren’t the only ones the Romulan troops were taking pot shots at, so they were making progress.

Spock was keeping up, looking stronger by the moment, even though his head was still bleeding.

After what felt like forever, but was only one minute, four seconds, according to Spock, they made it up the ramp and into the ship.

Jim slammed his good hand against a control almost knocking Nyota over, as soon as they stepped onboard. “Closes the door,” he apologized.

“Okay, now what?”

“Controls for the lift are on the center console. It’s in Romulan. Raise us to mark one, and confirm,” Jim explained.

Spock darted to comply.

“Nyota, turbolift, this way,” Jim urged her forward.

She hoped it wasn’t too far because Jim was moving slower by the minute. Luckily it was close only ten meters away, tucked at the end of the hallway. She had Jim inside by the time Spock had caught up. She scanned the text on the controls, selecting “door close” and “top,” and hoping the lift was fast.

“How many decks does this ship have?” she asked.

“Mm, five? That’s how many stories we are below sea level,” Jim mused.

“Jim, how deep is it going to be when we get up there, we’re in the water right? You’re in no condition to swim, I don’t think we can get away from an explosion that fast,” Nyota worried.

“Surveillance images show this ship is closest to the shore, within the tidal flats,” Spock supplied helpfully.

“So even if it’s high tide, we won’t get too wet—we’re here,” Jim babbled, tugging on Nyota’s arm again.

Spock exited first, complying promptly with Jim’s barked “green lever to the right of the door,” and getting the door to slide open even as they approached it.

Nyota wasn’t counting, but she could tell they had very little time left. She could feel the awareness of the ever-shrinking number pouring through the bond from Spock’s mind.

“Lemme go, I’m good, I can jog a bit,” Jim said, pushing her away.

She glanced over at him, terrified he was trying to make them leave him behind, save themselves and not him. After all they’d been through, it was just too much, but she saw the certainty in Jim’s eyes, and let go.

He stumbled, but caught himself, and kept up at a limping sprint.

He was right, the water outside wasn’t too deep, but it did splash over the tops of Nyota’s low cut boots, water logging her feet, shocking her with it’s cool saltiness.

She glanced over her shoulder. Jim was keeping up, turning his limp into a sprint behind her. The long ominous rectangle of the Raptor One rising behind them, red lights ringing its top and blinking, as if signaling the impending explosion.

Spock was already to the dry part of the beach, Nyota not too far behind, and Jim steadily keeping pace behind her. But where could the go? All she could see was sand. The tree line was too far back, too far to reach, and even if the most harmful, destructive portion of the blast would be contained underground, they needed cover, _something_ to shelter them. Where? _There_! She spotted a long, snakelike bolder not fifteen meters away, it was hidden, camouflaged with the beach by the dim light of pre-dawn. But they could reach it. Dive over it. And it would give them cover.

“Spock, Jim, over there!” she shouted over the growing whine behind them. She could hear it, circuitry overloading getting ready to blow.

Spock sprinted, and she followed, diving over the rock in a smooth roll and turning. But Jim was still coming.

Spock reached out and grabbed him, ignoring Jim’s pained grunt of protest and bodily carrying him the last three meters. They fell together, Spock shielding Jim, over the top of the rock landing next to Nyota.

“Get down!” she shouted, “it’s gonna blow!”

As she spoke, Spock complied, pressing himself over Jim and grabbing Nyota’s un-singed shoulder, and pressing them to the ground, just as the ship exploded behind them.

The noise was deafening, her ears ringing, and she could feel the ground shake, strong as an earthquake as secondary explosions—some larger than the initial blast—went off deep underground. Sand pelted up, small pieces of debris thrown from the ship sailed through the air like low-powered shrapnel, some striking the rock, others sailing over it and landing on them.

“Oww,” Jim complained, but he was complaining, so he was all right.

They were going to be all right. They were together, and the Federation was saved.

Spock squeezed Nyota’s shoulder as she tangled her fingers in Jim’s hair, and for the first time since Jim had gone undercover, she smiled freely.

The chirping of a communicator interrupted their shared moment.

“—said _Enterprise_ to Lt. Uhura, do you read?” Sulu’s voice, distressed.

“We read you enterprise. Spock, Kirk, and Uhura, present and accounted for,” she called into the device. “Any chance we can get a lift?”

“The explosion took out their jamming, so we’ve got a transporter lock. Radiation looks good, nothing drifting your way. Just hang on, and we’ll have you back on board. Tell the Captain we’re glad to have him back,” Sulu replied.

“Good to be back,” Jim half-shouted, half-slurred into Nyota’s communicator.

And then the shimmer of dematerialization hit them, and they were going home.

 

 **Chapter 10: Epilogue**

Bones had tried to corral him and Spock in sickbay the moment they’d beamed aboard. But the crew—the command crew and everyone who had played a part in the success of this godforsaken mission—was gathering on the bridge to watch the chain reaction. It wasn’t gloating or victorious, they had to watch. Make sure all the link in the chain detonated. Make sure there was nothing left behind. And Jim, _damnit_ , he needed to see.

He hadn’t gone through his own personal hell, almost died, and almost got his lovers killed in the process not to see it through. They had to make sure it was over. If it wasn’t then he, or someone else, was going to have to do it all over again, and there might not be time, if even one of the prototypes was salvageable, the Romulans might decide to go through with their plan anyway or take the development deeper underground, farther into Romulan territory where the Federation, Klingons, Cardassians, or anyone else they decided to pick off would never get wind of it until it was too late.

Lucky for Jim, Spock was of the same mind, needing to see that it was all over with the reserved, apparently emotionless determination only a Vulcan could manage. Under the surface Spock was reeling with conflicted emotions—fear, pain, concern, relief, anxiety, shame, pride—they were all tumbling across the bond and spilling over into Jim’s mind. Into Nyota’s too. If Jim hadn’t known better, he would have thought Spock had lot control, but he knew Spock well enough now to know the emotional overflow was intentional. Spock understood his partners—Jim in particular—needed to _know_ he was affected, to know he did feel, deep down even if it was pushed away and shrouded in logic. So while Spock wouldn’t let it show, he could let them feel. And Jim was eternally grateful for it.

Of course Spock was still bleeding, green blood still sluggishly trickling down the side of his face from the nasty gash and bruise on his temple. He had burns on his hands from the power conduits he’d sabotaged, a few more cuts and scrapes where small pebbles and other debris from the beach kicked up by the initial explosion had pelted him like shrapnel, and his uniform was torn and soot-covered.

So, naturally Bones wasn’t any more inclined to listen to Spock’s protests than he was Jim’s. He seemed half-convinced either Spock’s head wound was serious or Jim had hit him with some kind of “suicidal whammy” (Bones’s words, not Jim’s) because Spock’s behavior was “altered” and illogical.

Nyota, who had managed to escape with nothing more than a tiny plasma burn on her right shoulder, and had neither been dosed with mid-altering drugs nor had a head injury, was the only one Bones seemed to be willing to listen to. “Leonard, they need this,” she said, resting her hands, gentle-but-firm, on Bones’s arm.

He froze, hypospray poised inches from Jim’s neck and glared over his shoulder at her. “They _need_ a thorough physical examination. They need food and rest and medical care. They _need_ to follow Starfleet Regulations,” Bones griped as he pressed the hypo to Jim’s neck.

Jim yelped, because it _stung_ , but the horrible, disconnected fog and dizziness that had clouded his mind since Colonel D’Chavek had strapped him down and injected him, finally cleared, and he immediately felt better. Well, he did for a moment, then his stomach rebelled, even though he hadn’t eaten in… he had no idea how long. A little voice at the back of his mind told him it was very, very bad that he didn’t remember. The roiling, twisting sensation got stronger. Jim could sense Spock’s concern beside him, and he was pretty sure Nyota and Bones would both be hovering if they weren’t locked in an epic glare match—he didn’t need to see them to know what they were doing, he’d been on the receiving end of both their glares more times than he’d like to count. Jim tried to choke back sick-slick nausea, but then his mouth started to salivate uncontrollably and he gagged, and he was suddenly slumping forward on the biobed and vomiting all over the floor. His muscles cramped and strained, and he couldn’t breathe, and it was horrible, horrible, the feel of slimy things slithering up his throat, he was going to have another flashback, but then Spock was _there_ plastered to his side, one hand holding Jim’s head, the skin-to-skin touch sending feelings of calm and peace through Jim’s conflicted mind, as Spock’s other hand wrapped around his torso, steadying him.

As the spasms finally subsided, Jim became aware of the forced _silence_ behind him. Somehow Bones and Nyota both could be louder by not speaking than they ever could with words. “I’m all right, st—stop glaring at each other,” Jim croaked, hating how hoarse his voice still was. At least he was breathing okay, well mostly. He pressed back against Spock, hoping his lover—bondmate—could sense his intentions.

Spock shifted, giving Jim room.

Jim gingerly pushed himself with his uninjured right arm, gingerly to the edge of the biobed and dropped down, carefully avoiding the puddle of green-black goo and bile that hadn’t quite all sunk into the floor grating. His knees wobbled horribly as his feet connected with the floor and he became acutely aware of how badly his hands were shaking when he tried to grab the bed for support and missed—twice.

Spock rescued him, sliding closer again and moving his hands to Jim’s arm, steadying it and helping Jim straighten to his feet.

“What! No, you crazy imbecile child, get back on the damn bed!” Bones shouted, his hands grabbing and then releasing Jim’s left shoulder as he apparently thought better of jostling Jim’s injuries. “Get back on the bed. You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“Leonard,” Nyota said, her voice brooking no argument, “We need to see this through. Let them go.”

Jim glanced over at his other lover and shared a gracious smile. Nyota understood, she really did, and she was going to back them on this.

“Are you crazy? You’ve been spending too much time with this daredevil and h—hobgoblin!” Bones yelled. “Spock has a likely concussion. Jim has—I can’t even begin to tell you what all’s wrong with him because I haven’t gotten to complete an examination, but I can tell you from these readings,” Bones was waving his medical tricorder around, “that his blood sugar is two steps from a coma, and his metabolism’s shot to hell.”

Jim rolled his eyes and groaned inwardly. That he already knew, but he hated hearing it confirmed aloud. Every time he went through this was harder than the last. Reprogramming him to actually recognize his appetite, easing his metabolism out of starvation survival mode, getting his _uniquely touchy_ physiology to cooperate with the treatment regimen was a daunting, miserable task. But he couldn’t worry about it right now. That was for the future, when this was all over. And he might be back on the _Enterprise_ reunited with his partners and his crew, but unless he saw for himself that the plan had actually _worked_ it would never be _over_. He shot a pleading glance at Nyota.

“They’re stable for now,” Nyota responded, shifting her eyes from Jim to Bones, her expression determined, unyielding.

Jim had never been more in awe of her than at that moment.

“Give Jim some glucose, slap a monitor on him—and Spock, if you’re that worried—and accompany us to the bridge,” she said firmly. “Once the light show is over, you can take us all back here. I will personally ensure they both comply, and submit to your tender mercies until such time as you see fit to release them.”

Bones didn’t move just stayed hovering a couple centimeters from Jim, his eyes fixed in disbelief at Nyota.

“Leonard, either help me get them to the bridge or goddamnit I will knock you out and carry them there myself.” Nyota’s glare intensified and she slipped into a fighting stance all too familiar from their sparring sessions.

A chortle sounded from the other side of sickbay causing Jim, Spock, Nyota, and Bones to turn their heads in unison.

Christine Chapel was standing next to one of the supply cabinets holding a tray stacked with hypos and a portable dermal regenerator in one hand and covering her mouth with the other as she began to cackle with laughter. “Len, just do what she says. None of us are stupid enough to try to stop her,” Christine nodded at Nyota. “Besides, I’m pretty sure there are several people in Medical who stand to make out like bandits if you two actually get into a fight.”

Jim actually smiled at that, “Do I need to worry about unsanctioned gambling on my ship?”

“No, Captain, it’s all in good fun,” Christine answered with a wink.

That seemed to be enough to get Bones to relent, so he had—grudgingly and with a maximal amount of grumbling and complaining—wrestled Jim into a wheelchair and followed him, Spock, and Nyota out of sickbay, into the turbolift, and onto the bridge, hovering like a mother hen the entire time, and slapping Jim with a steady stream of hypos.

Jim had ditched the chair as soon as they exited the turbolift outside the bridge.

Bones wasn’t happy about that, but Nyota and Spock had slotted themselves in on either side of Jim, there to support him if he collapsed, and Bones’ argument hadn’t gotten farther than a muttered, “Damnit Jim!”

The scene on the bridge was tense, subdued. Everyone was transfixed by the sector of Corbalis displayed on the forward viewscreen.

“How long?” Nyota asked, breaking the silence and drawing every eye on the bridge towards them.

Wide eyes and nervous glances ricocheted around the room as several officers began to half-stumble to their feet. Before anyone could yell out “Captain on the Bridge,” Jim gestured down with his good hand and mouthed, “At Ease,” not quite trusting his voice yet.

“One Minute and Forty-nine seconds, Lieutenant,” Chekov answered Nyota’s question, the number rolling off his tongue smoothly. “It is good to have you back, Keptin,” he added.

“’Sgood to be back,” Jim managed, catching Gaila’s eye where she was perched on the edge of the navigation console and sending her an understanding nod. Her posture relaxed for the first time since the crisis had started, and Jim understood. She could finally stand down. She’d been on guard since she realized what they were up against, what they wanted Jim to do, and now that he was back safe and—mostly—unharmed, she could breathe freely again.

“Are you sure it was wise to send that message, to give them time,” it was Pylar, speaking, and everyone moved as one to glare at her.

“We’re not murderers and we’re not butchers, Agent,” Jim said. “There were innocent people—slaves, forced labor—and lots more ordinary workers, Romulan Citizens who believe what their government has told them because they don’t have any other source of information. It’s up to us to show them we aren’t what they think. We don’t want to destroy them. We’re not murderers,” he said again. “We need witnesses who saw what happened here, and what _didn’t_ happen, who can carry a message back to Romulus and start the peace process.”

“But the weapons—” Pylar started again.

“The weapons had only been installed on one vessel, designation _Raptor One_. Captain Kirk, Lt. Uhura, and I destroyed that ship while we were still on the planet’s surface. The designs for the weapons system and the cache of PSN Cannons waiting to be installed and assembled were housed in the facility immediately beneath the _Raptor One_. The facility was destroyed and the two men in charge of the project perished when the _Raptor One_ was destroyed,” Spock interjected. His tone was a perfect example of Vulcan control—confident, emotionless, logical. “As long as the remaining prototypes are destroyed and as long as the proper diplomatic overtures follow, this project poses little threat to the Federation.”

“But the people could have knowledge—” Pylar just wasn’t willing to let it rest.

“Look lady, other people, people not there, could have knowledge too. Eradicating every shred of knowledge, every hint of an idea isn’t possible. We removed the immediate threat, the rest is up to the diplomats!” Jim spat unable to contain his disgust any longer.

She looked like she was going to open her mouth again, but Nyota’s glare cut her off.

Then the explosions started and the bridge fell silent, every eye once again transfixed by the sight before them.

“Long range sensors confirm ten small craft leaving the planet and going to warp,” Sulu narrated. “Sensor data indicates transports, shuttles, not military vessels,” he added.

Jim nodded absently, counting the explosions. _One, two, three, four, five,…_ There was a pause and his heart caught in his throat, but then another “boom,” sounded through the speakers accompanied by a bright flash of light erupting from the ground, followed by another, and another. Nine, ten, eleven,… Another pause, this one longer than the last. Jim was leaning forward his good hand dropping to the back of the Captain’s chair for support before the final “boom,” this one somehow louder, larger, and brighter than the last, sounded signifying the destruction of the final prototype. “Twelve,” he said aloud. “Plus the destruction of _Raptor One_ , makes all thirteen. We got them. They’re gone,” he sighed, relief seeping into his voice as he sagged against the chair.

Silence reigned again as the play of fire and light danced across the viewscreen. The sky above the sector of Corbalis glowed red even as the explosive fires began to die down, drowned by the salty waves of the sea. The crew watched with rapt attention as reality sunk in and Corbalis’s sun began to break across the horizon. Another threat to Earth, to the Federation, averted. Another day to live and fight and explore.

It was Sulu who finally broke the silence. “Who wants to be they’ll send the _Enterprise_ in to do the diplomatic mission?” he quipped with a dark smile shooting a wary glance over his shoulder at Jim, Spock, and Nyota. He was only half sarcastic.

“I believe that would be a conflict of interest,” Spock said with a quirk of his eyebrow, his eyes steady and unmoving from the scene unfolding on their main viewscreen.

“Since when did that ever stop the Admiralty?” Jim snorted. His voice came out raspy and hoarse, and when he tried to force a laugh it came out more of a harsh snort that threatened to turn into a deep, hacking cough. He could try not to be bitter, but he was still bitter. Like it or not, the Admiralty’s arrogance had almost gotten him and a lot of other good people killed, again. He wanted to blame himself, and honestly Jim _did_ feel responsible, but _not_ for not _telling_ every detail of his past, his time on Tarsus IV, his abusive childhood, the more _interesting_ aspects of his medical history, no Spock—both Spocks—were right, Jim didn’t deserve to be judged on a past over which he had little control, especially when he had so much to offer the Federation. He was more than the sum of his experiences, more than his past, more than George Kirk’s son, more than a _Kelvin_ survivor, more than a survivor of Tarsus IV, more than an abused kid, more than a sex worker, more than a drunk repeat offender, more than a tactical genius, more than the hero of the _Narada_ incident… More than the Captain of the _Enterprise_.

And yeah, he was really starting to _believe_ that, not in a cocky, I’m-gonna-beat-whatever-challenge-you-throw-down-for-me kind of way, and not out of arrogance, but _self belief_. He had skills and experience and daresay, _talents_ the Federation—that Starfleet—needed. He had scars blemishes and deep chasms papered over and barely hidden littered throughout his past. But they made him who he was, and he wanted to use his talents, wanted to contribute.

No, what it was that Jim still felt a little guilty about was not being who the Admirals expected. He shouldn’t blame himself—like Gaila, and apparently Ambassador Spock too—had pointed out, it was all written on his face for anyone willing to look. Most just didn’t want to look beyond the façade. So, he wasn’t what they expected, and sometimes that caused problems. Most of the time it actually worked out to the Federation’s advantage, but sometimes it blew up in their faces.

This time had been a little of both. He’d been discovered, captured, tortured, and almost… No, he wasn’t going to go there. Whatever D’Chavek’s intentions or Greely’s desires, they hadn’t gotten their way. Jim was fine and whole and home and surrounded by his crew… his family.

Nyota pressed a hand to his back and squeezed closer to his side. “What do you say we got get you checked out,” she murmured.

Jim looked at her, a smile on his face. “It’s over,” he whispered.

“Yes it is,” Spock murmured in his ear.

Jim straightened up as much as he could. “Mr. Sulu, has this been transmitted to Starfleet Command?”

“Starfleet Command and the Federation President have been watching the same feed we have over subspace,” Sulu confirmed.

“Keptin, I am getting a priority one transmission from Starfleet Command, text only—” Chekov said excitedly. “It’s our orders, sir,” he said turning to Jim.

“Go ahead, Chekov,” Jim rasped.

“It says we are to return to Earth spacedock for immediate debrief—” Chekov reported, hunched over his console. He broke off and whirled around eyes bright and big and round. “And we are to get two weeks shore leave. Admiral Pike says he personally guarantees that, and he is wery, wery sorry our last leave was cut short.”

“Tell Admiral Pike I said, ‘thank you,’” Jim replied.

“Aye, aye, Keptin.”

“Mr. Sulu, you have the con,” he added before glancing back over his shoulder to where Bones was still hovering. “Okay Bones, we’re all yours.”

Spock stiffened beside him.

“You too, Spock, that was the deal.”

Spock acquiesced, signaling his acknowledgement with a quick brush of his fingers against the fingers of Jim’s injured hand.

Spock and Nyota flanked him, arms across his back as they exited the bridge. Firm, constant, caring, steady, _his_. Oh yeah, Jim was so much more than the sum of his experiences. And he was really looking forward to showing the galaxy just how awesome he was, just as soon as he got some rest.

  
_The End._   



End file.
